


Shadows and Dust

by Zara_Zee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Violence, Captivity, Corporal Punishment, Fights, Gen, Gladiators, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Dean, Kidnapping, Minor Character Death, Nudity, Whipping, major Dean!whump, non explicit references to torture and rape in Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:11:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5839378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zara_Zee/pseuds/Zara_Zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean disappears after a hunt in Montana, Sam will stop at nothing to find him. As he tears up the Mid-west looking for answers, Sam learns that it’s not only hunters who are disappearing; monsters are being kidnapped too.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Dean awakes to find himself locked in a cell. Being held captive sucks, but he knows his brother will come for him soon. Until that happens, all he has to do is kill monsters in an arena. In front of an audience. Wearing sandals and a leather skirt.</p>
<p>It’s not as much fun as it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set season six, between _The French Mistake_ and … _And then there were none._  
>  Story is mostly canon compliant, although Sam and Dean find out about pureblood werewolves earlier than in canon.  
> This story owes a debt of gratitude to the _Angel_ episode _The Ring_ …in case anyone thought it seemed a bit familiar! 
> 
> The fantastic art is by the wonderful Dizzojay . Please check out the [Art Masterpost](http://dizzojay.livejournal.com/303499.html) and leave her lots of love!
> 
> Thank you to endlessevelina for beta reading, 9tiptoes for US English proofing and the Reversebang mods for once again running this fabulous challenge.

 

“Sam! _Sammy_!”

Sam prised his eyelids open and looked up at scared green eyes, freckles and stubble. Dean’s face was very close to his.

He licked at his dry lips. His right shoulder hurt like a bitch and he was cold. The ground he was lying on was damp. 

“Whu?” he said, as he tried to push himself upright.

Dean’s arms were around him instantly, helping him to sit.

“You passed out,” Dean said. “One minute you were shooting Charles Winston Maynard The Third in the face with rock salt, the next you were lying on your back twitching.”

Sam licked at his lips again. “How long was I…?”  

Dean’s brow furrowed. “About five minutes this time. What did it feel like to you?”

Sam drew a deep shuddering breath. “Too long. Weeks.”

Dean nodded, his face closed off. “Okay. Let’s get you up.”

“The ghost?” Sam asked as Dean helped him stagger to his feet.

“I got it lit up. I’ll come back and cover up the grave once you’re lying down in the car.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, because this time he could’ve messed up a hunt. At least last time he’d passed out like this it had been during their down time.

“Did you go deliberately picking at the wall again?”

Sam pulled up short. “What? No. I…Dean. I said I wouldn’t and--”

“Okay,” Dean nodded. “Then you got nothing to be sorry for. Let’s just get this done and get back to the motel.”

\--

No doubt about it, if there was a prize for Ugliest Motel Room Ever their room would win, hands down. The quilt covers looked like someone had vomited pansies and tulips all over them and the wallpaper was downright creepy; row after row of solemn-faced little blonde girls, all holding a red balloon.  Sam shuddered. He heard the toilet flush and shortly after Dean came out of the bathroom carrying a glass of water and a small plastic pill bottle.

 “Here,” he said, handing Sam the water and trying to press the pills into his hand.

 “Dean--” Sam began, because he didn’t want to start self-medicating, no matter how ‘effective’ the pills were.

“Just listen,” Dean interrupted, rattling the pill bottle. “You look like shit, man. And not wanting the drugs, I get it, I do. But when it comes to Hell,” he trailed off and then sat down on Sam’s bed with a grimace. “Hell ain’t designed to keep you sane and you sure as shit aren’t supposed to _live_ through the experience. The only way to hang onto your mind is to push that shit way down, and these are gonna help with that,” he rattled the pill bottle again. “Maybe help you get a little sleep too.”

Sam had to admit that his brother had a point. The memories of his flesh burning--the agony as his skin curled and blistered and peeled--were still fresh. Every time Sam closed his eyes he saw flames flickering beneath his eyelids. He swallowed and held his hand out for the pill bottle and his brother’s eyes flashed with relief.

Once Sam had dutifully downed a tablet, Dean sauntered over to the other bed and grabbed the TV remote, turning the volume right down and channel surfing until he found a Bruce Willis movie to watch. It was the one with that guy from _Friends_ and Bruce Willis as an assassin. Dean plumped up his pillows and set them against the headboard, leaning back against them and stretching out his legs.

Sam blinked. His eyelids felt heavy. Dean kept up a low running commentary, criticizing the gun-handling in the movie and whistling low when the main character got into bed with the hitman’s wife. Sam was warm and comfortable and whatever Dean had given him, was keeping his brain pleasantly floaty.  He blinked again and this time his eyes took much longer to open. Sam fell asleep to the soothing rhythm of his brother’s voice, the television burbling in the background, and the room mostly dark. 

When Sam woke up, sunlight was streaming through the closed threadbare yellow curtains and he was alone.  He lay still, still feeling lazy and languid from the pill Dean had given him, and wondered idly if Dean would be back soon with coffee and breakfast.

Twenty minutes later he was still alone in the room.

Sam got up slowly and headed to the bathroom.  He stripped mechanically and then turned the shower on. He answered a call of nature while he waited for the water to heat up. When the shower was steamy he stepped inside. Sam was pretty sure the stench of sulphur and brimstone was only in his head, but he set about washing it away with the motel’s soap anyway. He lathered up and had a sudden flash of orange jumpsuits, waist high stalls and lecherous eyes. Sam’s nostrils flared.  Goddamn cheap soap. It smelled like Green River Detention Center and every truck stop rest room he’d ever been in.  The shampoo was better. A little fruity, which Dean was probably going to give him shit for, but at least he’d washed away the remnants of the Cage, imagined or otherwise.

When Sam re-entered the bedroom Dean still wasn’t back. He frowned and went and checked his cell phone.

Nothing.

He looked around the room and spotted a piece of the motel’s stationery, torn off the notepad, sitting askew in the middle of the table by the window.

_Gone to Laurel Ridge Motel to help patch up Grady. He got hurt on a hunt and texted me, said he’d heard we were close. Probably be back before you wake up, Princess._

Sam frowned again. And then he called Dean. The call went straight through to voicemail. Sam thumbed through his contacts until he found Grady’s number.  He got the same result; straight through to voicemail.

Maybe Grady’s injuries had been worse than he’d led Dean to believe. Sam snorted. Wouldn’t be the first time a hunter had tried to pass off several severed limbs as ‘just a scratch’.

Sam tried Dean’s number again and when he still got no response he left a message: “Hey, Dean. I’m guessing Grady was worse than you thought. I’m gonna go and book our room for another night. Call me if you need anything.”

\--

At 10.00am on a Tuesday morning The Clock Tower Kitchen and Bakery was quiet. Sam got a cinnamon, apple and raisin bagel with whipped butter and a coffee to go and then he went and borrowed a pale blue Dodge Aries that looked almost as old as him.

It was twenty minutes straight down the I-90 to the Laurel Ridge Motel. Sam spotted the Impala immediately, parked in front of one of the motel’s sixteen rooms.  He pulled over next to it and peered inside before going and knocking on the door of the room behind the car; big black number 12 on an ugly turquoise door. Silence. Sam tried to look in the window, but the blinds were closed. He knocked again. And again. And then he picked the lock.

Not only was the room currently empty, it didn’t look as if anyone had been in it lately. Certainly, no one was staying here now.

A heavy lump settled in the pit of Sam’s stomach and his pulse began to beat in a fast and agitated rhythm beneath his skin. 

Sam had brought the spare key to the Impala with him, just in case, and he used it now to open the car and search through the box of IDs in the glovebox.

He went into the Reception and rang the bell.

The man who appeared from out the back was grey-haired and ruddy-skinned. The buttons of his stained shirt looked like they were about to pop and his stomach hung well over his belt.

“Yes?” he said, his tone suggesting that Sam had ruined his day by turning up.

Sam slapped his FBI ID down on the counter. “When did you last rent out Room 12?”

The man glared down at the ID and then peered up suspiciously at Sam. After a moment he reached under the counter with a put-upon sigh and hauled up a large green vinyl book. He flicked through it and then spun it around to face Sam.

“There,” he pointed with a nicotine-yellow finger. “Two weeks ago. Tuesday night.”

So maybe Dean was in a different room. Maybe Grady’s car had been parked in front of his room and Dean had simply parked in front of one of the vacant rooms. Sam wished he knew Grady’s aliases; that would make this so much easier. As it was, he was going to have to go door to door.

He picked up his fake ID and pocketed it. “Thanks for your time,” he headed for the door. “I’m going to have to talk to some of your other guests.”

“What? You can’t do that!”

Sam turned to face him. “Of course I can” he said. “In fact, you’re lucky I’m taking the softly, softly approach and not shutting you down and bringing in a forensics team.”

The man’s face paled and tightened.

“You have a nice day now,” Sam said.

Sam checked out every room at the motel. Only five were occupied and none of them were occupied by either Dean or Grady. He asked everyone if they’d seen the man who arrived in the Impala and got a whole lot of shoulder shrugging and indifference until he spoke with the young guy in room 13.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I’m a classic car enthusiast and when I heard that baby rumble into the lot I had to check her out.”

Sam’s heart began to race.

“You spoke to the driver?”

The young guy shook his head and Sam’s heart sank again.

“I just looked through the window. I mean, I wanted to go across, but it was pretty late, like after 2.00am, and, well, I guess the guy came to the motel for a booty call or something, because he didn’t check in, just parked and went straight over to the room opposite. I didn’t wanna, you know, get in the way of that.”

“Did you see him go inside?’ Sam asked.

“Yeah,” the guy nodded, and then frowned. “Well no, not actually. He was in front of the door and then a white van turned up and stopped for a moment and it blocked my view. By the time the van went, the guy was already inside the room.”

Sam’s heart sank even further. “Have you seen the guy since?” he asked. “Maybe moving around inside the room opposite or coming out to his car?”

The young guy shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

Sam licked at his lips. “Did you happen to get the van’s license plate?”

The young guy shook his head and apologized again.

Sam thanked him for his time and then went and had a good look around the motel’s grounds and surrounds. The motel didn’t have security cameras and there were no security or traffic cameras anywhere nearby that might have picked up the white van in or around the motel’s lot.

Sam went across to the Impala and climbed into the driver’s seat.  He tried Dean’s phone one last time and when it went straight through to voicemail yet again he started the car’s engine and headed back to their motel.

He spent the next couple of hours hacking the local police database looking for anything that mentioned kidnapping or white vans and got absolutely zip. He also noted that the only suspicious activity in the area that looked even remotely like a hunt was the poltergeist case that he and Dean had been working; which made him wonder what Grady had been doing in the area.

If Sam’s suspicions were correct and Dean had gone into the white van, not the motel room, then his brother had been missing for nearly twelve hours already and that really couldn’t be a good thing.

Sam needed help. He needed to escalate this to a full scale emergency.

He called Bobby.

Bobby listened carefully to Sam’s frantic recitation of the facts and then said, “Dean’s note said that Grady called him?”

“Yeah,” Sam frowned. “No. It said that Grady _texted_ him.”

“Huh,” Bobby said, his tone ponderous. “Son, I think you better get your ass to Sioux Falls. Seems we might have a situation.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, dropping his head into his hand as the reality of the situation overcame him.  “Dean is…shit…he’s really missing, Bobby.”

“He ain’t the only one,” Bobby said. “Grady went missing five weeks ago.”

\--

Dean returned to consciousness slowly. He became aware that he was awake at the same time he became aware that his head felt like he’d been on a three day bender.  He ran his tongue around his dry lips and, ow, that hurt. His lip was split and his tongue felt like he’d bitten right through it. He was thirsty and he could taste the copper tang of blood in his mouth.  The last thing he remembered was arriving at Grady’s motel room. He’d been about to knock when he’d heard a noise behind him and…after that he had nothing.

“Fuck,” he groaned and tried to lift a hand to his aching forehead.

His arm wouldn’t move. Neither of his arms would move. And neither would his legs. Dean experienced a moment of sheer terror, before he realized that he wasn’t paralyzed, just tied down.

Also, naked. Although, thankfully, covered by a blanket.

Dean opened his eyes. He was in a small cell that looked like something out of a medieval castle; cold grey stone walls, and a door made of thick black iron with a small window made of iron bars.

There were only two things in the cell: the narrow iron cot that he was lying on, complete with lumpy mattress and thin grey blanket, and a plastic bucket.

“Oh you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” Dean muttered.

Movement and a rattling sound caught his attention and he looked up to see a man in a white lab coat unlocking and opening his cell door with a big bunch of ye olde timey looking keys.

Behind him were two black-Kevlar-and-helmet-clad dudes carrying AK47s.

“Good morning, Mr Winchester,” said the man as he entered the cell. He was carrying a black bag. The armed dudes stayed outside, guns trained on Dean. He figured he should probably be flattered.

“I’m Dr Jones,” the man in the white coat continued. “I gave you a thorough examination when you were brought in, but of course, there’s only so thorough I can be without your feedback. How are you feeling?”

“I’m pissed,” Dean said, trying not to imagine the doctor poking and prodding at his unconscious naked body. He pulled on his bindings. “What’s with the bondage-and -torture dungeon?”

The doctor laughed, a sibilant sound devoid of humor. “The ‘bondage’ is a standard precaution with all new arrivals. Whether or not there’s ‘torture’ is entirely up to you.”

Dean stared at him. “Speaking of new, I seem to have missed the introductory tour and welcome breakfast.”

Dr Jones grinned. “Oh, the audiences are going to love you.”

Dean frowned. “Audiences? What—” he broke off as the doctor came toward the cot and reached out for the blanket. Dean tried to grab onto it, to hold it down and keep it covering him, but of course he couldn’t move. He felt himself blushing as the doctor pulled the blanket off him, exposing him to the room, and he made another little abortive move, instinctively wanting to cover his junk. Tied down as he was, he had no choice but to endure the doctor standing over him and staring down at his nakedness.

“See something you like?” Dean quipped, falling back on his old standby of hiding embarrassment and humiliation behind a cocky, smartass façade.

“Oh yes,” Dr Jones said. “You’re an excellent specimen. I imagine we’ll get a lot of After Hours requests for you.”

Dean felt his heartbeat and breathing speed up. He wasn’t sure exactly what kind of mess he’d gotten himself into here, but it was sounding progressively worse by the minute.

“Okay, listen up Indy,” he said. “I got no clue what’s going on here, so how about you just give it to me straight?”

The doctor’s eyes were bright and his lips twitched with amusement. “I’m just here to assess your health. The Lanista will be along shortly to explain how things work here. Now, aside from pissed,” the doctor’s lips quirked again, “how are you feeling?”

“Well,” Dean said, “I’m feeling a little go fuck yourself.”

The doctor sighed. “Believe it or not, my role here is to look after your health and well-being. You have nothing to gain by being uncooperative with me and everything to lose. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll be obliged to tell the Lanista and you’ll be punished,” he pursed his lips. “That’s where the ‘torture’ you mentioned earlier comes in. Now, how are you feeling? I understand that your recruiters were somewhat overly enthusiastic in the use of their tasers and you may be experiencing some after-effects; headaches, aching muscles, memory lapses. That sort of thing.”

Truthfully, Dean wasn’t all that concerned by the prospect of ‘torture’. After forty years in Hell, he figured there was nothing anyone could do to him that Alastair hadn’t done a thousand times worse. But maybe the smarter move here would be to play along a little. Just until he got some more intel on where he was and why he’d been taken.    

“I don’t remember getting tasered,” he said. “I’ve got a killer headache. And I’m thirsty.”

The doctor pulled a syringe and a small bottle out of his black bag and gave Dean a shot.

“The memory may or may not come back,” he said. “But I don’t suppose you’ll be too upset if you don’t regain it. You’ll get something to eat and drink once the Lanista has spoken with you.”

The doctor backed out of the cell and Dean was left alone, naked and bound. The bastard didn’t even put the blanket back over him.

Now that he wasn’t covered by the blanket, Dean could see that his wrists and ankles were enclosed in some kind of smooth metal cuffs that were securing him to the cot.  Straining against them did nothing except hurt his wrists and ankles and Dean couldn’t see an obvious locking mechanism. Not that he had anything to pick a lock with at the moment anyway.

Dean stared up at the ceiling and tried not to shiver. Stone floors and walls didn’t exactly make for a warm environment and being buck naked didn’t help either.

He wondered who this Lannister guy was, wondered idly if he was screwing his sister like Jaime Lannister in that new show, _Game of Thrones_.

The stomp of boots on stone brought him out of his musings and he looked over at the door in anticipation. There were armed guards again and two men, a medium height, non-descript blond guy dressed in a rumpled grey suit (no tie) and another dude who was dressed as a gladiator and seemed to be holding a whole bunch of leather strips.

 _Ah, fuck_. It was all starting to make a sick kind of sense now. 

Suit dude and the gladiator entered his cell.

“Dean Winchester,” said the suit, his voice oil-slick and eager. “I can’t begin to tell you what an honor it is to have recruited you to the Ludus Caledonia.”

Dean snorted at the term ‘recruited’. “Yeah, well,” he said. “It’s always good to meet a fan. I’d shake your hand, but I’m a little tied up right now.”

The suit beamed. “That’s the spirit, Dean. You keep up with that attitude; those quips of yours. The audience is gonna eat it right up.”

“Audience. Right,” Dean let his gaze roam over the gladiator. The man’s head was down, but even so he looked…fuck.

The gladiator was Grady.

“Man,” Dean looked back at the beaming suit. “You are one sorry sack of stupid. You really think you can kidnap a bunch of hunters and no one’s gonna come after you?”

The suit’s face darkened and then his lips curled up in a cruel smile. “Let them try,” he said. “This place is heavily warded. No one finds it without a blood-engraved invitation. Septimus,” he snapped his fingers and Grady stepped forward. “The bracelet.”

Grady put the pile of leather he was carrying down on the ground and then stepped toward Dean carrying what looked like a thick metal wrist cuff.

The suit nodded at the guards and one of them moved forward and pointed his gun at Dean’s chest through the bars in the cell door.

The suit pushed back his shirtsleeve, which revealed his own wrist cuff. He pushed a button on it and one of Dean’s handcuffs sprang open.

“Lift your hand,” Grady said gruffly.

Dean stared at the older hunter, but Grady wouldn’t make eye contact. “Why are you helping them?” Dean said.

“Shall I show him, Septimus?” the suit’s voice was laced with cruel glee.

“Please, Dean,” Grady said, finally meeting Dean’s eyes.

Dean pressed his lips together, but before he could respond Grady suddenly cried out and fell to the floor, where he writhed in clear agony.

“Your wrist cuffs,” the suit said, “have two settings: Agony and Death. All of the guards can give you Agony. Only management can give you Death. You will also notice, when you get an opportunity to move about the compound, that there are a number of thick lines marked on the floors. Some of the lines are red, some are yellow. Cross a yellow line and the Agony function on your wrist cuff is automatically triggered. Cross a red line and Death is automatically triggered.”

When the time came, Dean was going to enjoy ripping the suit’s lungs out. He let the man see the disdain in his eyes and then looked down at Grady. He was on his back now, panting. His face was etched with pain and his eyes were streaming with tears.

The suit nudged Grady with the tip of his shiny black shoe. “Get up,” he said.

Dean watched while Grady struggled to comply.

“Put the bracelet on him,” the suit told Grady.

“Hold up your hand, please,” Grady said to Dean, his voice rough and shaky.

Dean held up his hand. There had to be a way out of the cuffs and he would find it. But he didn’t want to be responsible for Grady getting the Agony button again.

The cuff clicked into place and two lights, one yellow, one red, immediately lit up.

“Excellent,” the suit said. He pressed a button on his wrist controller and Dean winced, preparing himself for pain that didn’t come. Instead, the rest of the smooth cuffs that had been manacling him to the bed slid open and off.

“Stand up,” the suit said.

Dean climbed up off the bed, massaging his wrists. He felt awkward as fuck, but he kept his head held high and refused to cover his groin or grab the blanket to wrap around himself. It wasn’t like he had anything to be ashamed of and with any luck he was making the suit feel inadequate.

“Welcome to the Ludus Caledonia,” the suit said. “You will refer to me as Lanista or Sir. While you are here I will be responsible for your training and your performance,” Dean tried not to scoff in disbelief and wasn’t entirely successful. The Lanista smiled thinly. “Your role here is to perform in gladiatorial combat in the Arena six nights a week against one or more supernatural creatures. Not all fights will be to the death. You are currently on probation. After ten fights and five kills you will be honored with the House brand,” beside him Dean felt Grady tense, “and you will be permitted a greater amount of freedom.  After one hundred eligible fights you will be set free.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. Somehow he really doubted that.

Eligible fights, he learned, didn’t include punishment fights, or display fights, or fights that the Lanista felt he’d thrown, or fights where he was ordered to kill his opponent, but didn’t, or fights were he was ordered to spare his opponent, but didn’t.  He also learned that he could earn extra kill credits by whoring himself out. Apparently watching death fights turned a lot of people on and they would bid ferociously for the chance to fuck or be fucked by the winner.

“So,” the Lanista said slyly. “Shall I put you down as available for After Hours work? A good looking young man like you,” his assessing gaze made Dean want to cover himself again, “is bound to be requested.”

Dean experienced a surreal, out of body feeling as the absurdity of the situation hit him. Was he seriously standing naked in a dungeon being asked if in addition to being a dancin’ fuckin’ monkey for a bunch of Suits, he wanted to let the most perverted of them have their way with him afterwards? Dean couldn’t believe the audacity.

“Think I’ll give that a miss,” he said curtly.

“I’m surprised. I hear you’re usually quite a hit with the ladies. And I’m sure that plenty of men of a certain _persuasion_ would pay a lot of money to have you as their toy for the night.”

Dean met the Lanista’s eyes. “I said, I’ll pass. Anyone tries to get up close and personal with me, I guarantee you they won’t like my version of foreplay.”

The Lanista chuckled. “Everything you do here is strictly voluntary.”

Dean snorted. “Right, so I don’t have to fight monsters in the arena?”

The Lansita grinned. “Of course not. If you want to kneel down in the arena like some kind of modern day Christina martyr and stay all pacifist and peaceful while a vampire or a werewolf or a wendigo tears your throat out, that’s entirely up to you.”

Dean glared.

“I’m going to leave Septimus here to help you get changed,” the Lanista pointed to the pile of leather on the floor.

“Septimus?” Dean frowned.

“Oh. Yes,” the Lanista clapped his hands. “I almost forgot. Your new name is Decimus. Your friend there was our seventh Hunter recruit. You are our tenth,” the Lanista turned toward the cell door and then paused. “Oh and Decimus?”

Every muscle in Dean’s body locked tight and then convulsed and his nerve endings all burned with agony as he fell to the floor with a cry of pain.

“That’s for calling me stupid.”

The pain stopped and Dean cautiously unclenched his jaw. The Lanista had gone but Grady was still there, sitting on the bed, the pile of leather beside him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean sat up. He felt a little shaky, but there was no residual pain.

“Here,” Grady handed Dean a soft black leather…Dean supposed he’d have to call it a loin cloth.

“What the fuck?” he said.

“That’s the front,” Grady pointed. “Goes between your legs, buckles up at your hips.”

Dean turned away from Grady and put the stupid thing on. At least now his junk wasn’t hanging out.

“So how’d you get dragged into all this?” he asked as he fastened the buckles.

“Same way you did. Got a text from Reggie saying he needed help with a vamp hunt. Arranged to meet him at a motel just outside of Omaha and got tasered when I turned up. Here. Put this on.”

Grady helped him change into the outfit he would be expected to fight and train in, a skirt of leather strips with a wide leather belt to protect his waistline from being injured, and something Grady called _manicae_ , which were wraps of leather used for shoulder, arm and wrist padding. There were sandals too, made of tough but flexible strips of leather which wrapped around his calf and were tied just below his knee.

Dean wasn’t going to lie; he kind of wished he had a full-length mirror. He was pretty sure he made a smoking hot gladiator.

“How many hunters do they have?” Dean asked.

“Like the Lanista said, you’re the tenth.”

“You seen anyone earn the right to leave?”

Grady said that he hadn’t, but that Tamara, or Una, as her gladiator name was, had 68 kills under her belt, so she should be the first, in a few months.  

Dean nodded. “I know Tamara. She’s one Hell of a hunter. Who else is here?”

Dean learned that Roy and Walt had been captured, as well as Reggie, Tim and Annie.

“That only makes eight of us,” he said with a frown. “I thought I was number ten?”

“You are,” Grady wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “We’ve lost a couple. Lula Black and Michael Ryan. You know them?”

Dean shook his head.

“A wendigo brought Lula down in the arena and Michael,” Grady scratched at his chin. “Michael crossed a red line.”

“Shit. So the guy in the suit wasn’t exaggerating,” Dean looked carefully at the cuff on his wrist. “What do you know about these?”

“I know they don’t come off unless management take them off. They’re completely tamper proof. The only way for us to free ourselves would be to knock out all the guards simultaneously as well as take control of the entire management team at once and force them to release us.”

Dean nodded. “How many people in ‘management’?”

Grady shrugged. “There’s the Lanista, the Arena Master and the Big Boss that I know of. Could be others.”

Dean turned away in frustration. Grady didn’t seem to know much. “Okay, I guess we’ll just have to focus on collecting intel. Sam’s probably cooking up a rescue plan as we speak, but the more we know--the more we can help ourselves--the better.” He ignored Grady’s skeptical expression. “So. They’ve got wendigos, vamps and werewolves. What else? What have you fought?”

Grady told Dean that he’d fought a dozen vamps, half a dozen werewolves, a rugaru, a wendigo and too many ghouls, revenants and zombies to mention. The undead were definitely the creature the hunters had to do battle with most often. Walt got put in the arena with a pair of chupacabras once.  And Roy had fought with a couple of skin walkers and a rawhead. 

“I’ve heard a rumor they’ve got a rakshasa too,” Grady said, “but no one’s seen it.”

Dean snorted at that.

Grady handed him the final item he’d been carrying, a brown knee-length baggy dress.

Dean frowned at him questioningly.

“Tunic,” Grady said. “For every day wear. The leather gets uncomfortable after a while.”

“We ever get to fight the other hunters?” Dean asked, setting the dress down on the bed.

Grady shook his head. “Sparring, sure, every day. But _actual_ fighting between ourselves gets you punished real quick.” He ran a hand through his short cropped hair. “Look…I heard about what went down between you and Sam and Roy and Walt, back when we were all trying to stop the apocalypse, but if you try to start anything with them now, it’ll just get you in trouble.”

Dean grinned. “Come on, Grady, you know that trouble is my middle name.”

Grady sighed and looked at Dean grimly. “You start a real fight with anyone outside of the arena and you’ll get tied to a cross and whipped. Don’t do it.”

Dean figured it would almost be worth it, just to beat the ever-loving snot out of Walt. He’d been through far worse than a mere whipping in Hell. Then again, he hadn’t actually had a body in Hell. Whatever had happened to him, Dean could comfort himself that it hadn’t been real; that it had only happened in his mind. It was something he’d told himself repeatedly when he’d first got back topside and it was probably the only thing that kept him sane. That and large quantities of Hunter’s Helper.

Speaking of.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting a drink in here, is there?”

Grady stood up. “They’ll send in a meal and a drink as soon as I leave. You—”

“I mean a _drink_ drink,” Dean interrupted.

Grady wrinkled his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “If you ask for a beer with your evening meal, they’ll bring you one.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, not sure whether Grady was just messing with him. “Really?” he said, half expecting Grady to smack him upside the head and call him an idiot.

“Really,” Grady said, his lips drawn thin. “They figured out pretty quickly that if you want to keep functioning alcoholics functioning, then you need to supply them with alcohol. And let’s face it; most of us hunters are barely functioning alcoholics.”

Dean wasn’t going to argue. “All right. So I get three hots and a cot and a drink when I nee- want one and all I gotta do is the job I normally do anyway. That about sum it up?”

Grady fixed Dean with a cold stare. “You think this is gonna be easy? Lula _died_ in the arena, Dean. A good hunter whose throat got ripped out for the entertainment of those sick fucks out there in the audience.”

Dean hadn’t meant to sound dismissive, he was just trying to make the best of it.

“What are they, anyway?” he asked. “Whatever’s running this? Demons?”

Grady laughed. “Humans. With some pretty powerful witches on staff. To them, you’re nothing but a slave. A valuable one, but a slave none-the-less,” Grady leaned in close to Dean and pointed a finger at him. “And you better remember that.”

After Grady left, a young guy in a white tunic brought Dean a burger and a bottle of water, which he passed to him between the bars of the cell window. 

“Thanks, buddy,” Dean said with a smile. “Any chance of a beer?”

The eyes guys flicked up briefly and he shook his head.  “Only with supper,” he said.

Dean inclined his head in acceptance and sat down on the bed. By the time he’d finished the meal he had to admit that Grady was right; the leather got uncomfortable real quick.

Dean changed into the stupid dress, dumped all the gladiator stuff on the ground and then lay back on his cot with his arms folded behind his head. 

Sam would already be looking for him, without a doubt, and nothing as insignificant as powerful warding would stop him from finding this place and figuring out how to get his brother out. Sam would come for him; Dean knew he would. It was just a matter of time.


	2. Chapter 2

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Ian.”  Sam pressed end and put his cell phone down on Bobby’s desk, in between a lukewarm half-bottle of El Sol and a dusty, dog-eared copy of _Matholwch’s Guide to Cryptozoology_.

The phone call had been from the eponymous owner of Ian’s Herbal Remedies in Utah. He wasn’t a hunter, but he knew about the supernatural world and the part hunters played in keeping on top of it. His shop even had markings on the front window to tell those in the know that Ian was the real deal and not some New Age wannabe. 

Ian had told Sam that he’d had a consignment of Griffin feathers put aside for Annie Hawkins for about four months, that she’d been in a real rush when she’d asked for them, but when he’d called to let her know they were in, he’d only gotten her voicemail. She hadn’t returned his call and he’d been getting nothing but her voicemail for the last three months. He’d heard that Sam and Bobby were looking into missing hunters and thought maybe they’d want to know about Annie.

Sam relayed Ian’s story to Bobby and the older hunter nodded. “I’ve had a couple other people mention not being able to get ahold of Annie for a while and that ain’t like her. She’s usually very sociable.”

Sam nodded. He’d heard that about Annie, but he didn’t want to dwell on the thought too much, because just thinking about her made a buzzing, tingling sensation start up deep inside his head; the kind of feeling he’d learned to associate with an important piece of knowledge trapped behind the wall.

Bobby shook his head. “All right. I’ll add her to the list. So far we’ve got Dean, Grady, Walt, Roy and Lula. And now Annie too. And I got a question mark next to Reggie and Tim.”

Sam’s face darkened and Bobby raised an eyebrow.

“You got issues with Reggie and Tim too? Hell boy, you’re turning out just like your Daddy, the way you ain’t on speakin’ terms with half the hunting world.”

Sam picked up his bottle of El Sol and began to play with the label. “You remember when I took that break from hunting and I spent some time in Garber, Oklahoma?”

“Yeah,” Bobby nodded. “You called me about a bunch of demon signs, told me you were out of the game, couldn’t deal with it, so I sent Reggie, Tim and Steve to look into it. Guess they were none too pleased you’d decided to bow out of the apocalypse.”

 “Yeah. And then Steve died.” Sam took a slow, deep breath. “After Steve went down, Reggie and Tim cornered me at work, made me confess that it was my fault; that I’d started the apocalypse, and then they tried to force demon blood down my throat,” Sam was staring a hole in the table, his eyes and mouth downcast. “I spat it out,” he said, lifting his eyes briefly, “and there was a fight. And, well, it’s safe to say they don’t like me much.”

“Does Dean know?’ Bobby asked.

Sam shook his head. “I didn’t tell him. You know how he gets. And we had enough on our plates at the time, what with Michael and Lucifer wanting to wear us both to the Prom.”

Bobby sighed and turned back to the research board on the library wall.

The hunters who’d disappeared had done so predominantly around the mid-west: South Dakota, Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, Minnesota and Missouri.  Dean appeared to be the outlier; he had disappeared from Montana. Bobby had placed red pins on the last known place where each missing hunter had been seen.  White vans had been seen in the vicinity of Lula’s, Grady’s and Dean’s disappearances.  Dean had received a text message from Grady shortly before going missing and Lula had received one from Tamara.

“Huh,” Bobby said. “You get in touch with Tamara yet?”

Sam shook his head. “But then she does tend to keep to herself; doesn’t like to work with others. And,” Sam chewed at his bottom lip, “if it wasn’t for me Isaac would probably still be alive, so, you know, it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t plan on returning any of my calls.”

“Could have a point,” Bobby conceded. “Tamara was always the more level-headed of the two, but losing Isaac the way she did,” he trailed off. “I’ll call Missouri, see if maybe she can get hold of her. They’ve always gotten along.”

Sam figured that bringing Missouri in on this was a very good idea. In fact, maybe he should pay her a visit, take her something of Dean’s and see if she could get a reading on him.

Maybe it was time to try Cas too. Dean was still pissed at the angel for spilling the beans about Sam’s year without his soul, and Cas was still busy with the war in Heaven, but Sam thought he would care that Dean was missing.

Sam excused himself and went out into the yard.  He found a nice secluded space in the middle of a heap of car bodies and closed his eyes:

“Castiel… I know you’re busy, but if you can hear me, uh, Dean is missing. Someone kidnapped him and—”

There was a flutter of wings and Cas appeared beside him, looking intense.

“Do you have leads?” Castiel asked. “Could Raphael have taken him?”

Sam brought Cas up to speed on what they knew and Cas inclined his head and looked thoughtful. “It doesn’t sound like Angels,” he said. “Perhaps the Alphas are seeking retribution against hunters, because hunters helped Crowley search for Purgatory?”

Sam thought that was unlikely. Only the Campbells and he and Dean had been involved in that and besides, if the monsters wanted retribution, wouldn’t they simply tear the hunters apart? Kidnapping seemed a little too sophisticated. Sam considered that for a moment and had to concede that the Alpha vamp had actually been a lot more sophisticated than him and Dean. He’d also been pissed. Maybe he _was_ behind this? Maybe he was abducting hunters to use as blood bags?  

“I’ll look into it,” he told Cas, and then hesitated before asking, “Can’t you feel him? You know, through your _profound bond_ or whatever?” He tried to keep the snark out of his tone, but he didn’t think he was very successful.

Cas’s jaw clenched and when he spoke, he sounded disgruntled. “I cannot simply ‘feel’ your brother. I _may_ be able to appear to him in a dream,” he said, “but I can find him most easily through his prayers. If he needs my help, perhaps he will pray to me.”

“So he hasn’t? Prayed to you?”

Castiel frowned. “If he had, I would have responded.”

Sam wasn’t so sure about that. He didn’t remember most of the past year, but Dean had told him that Cas had been a little flaky lately; sometimes too busy with the war in heaven to respond to their prayers.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Well, if you hear _anything_ —”

“I will call you,” Castiel leaned in toward Sam. “I have you in my contacts now.”

Sam clapped him on the shoulder and Cas nodded and then vanished in another flutter of wings. 

Sam wandered through the labyrinth of rusting car bodies, back toward Bobby’s house.  The weather was mild and he could smell a hint of summer in the breeze. Dean loved summer. The nights weren’t as cold—which made the nights they had to sleep in the car more comfortable— and the ground wasn’t as hard, which made a big difference when you were digging up graves. People were generally happier in summer too; more willing to make a wager on their pool game; more willing to hook up with the attractive, unattached drifter in the back of his car.

Sam realized that his hands were clenched in tight fists and he made himself relax.

When Dean learned that Sam had come out of the cage without his soul, he hadn’t rested until he’d figured out how to get it back; Sam had no intention of letting his brother down now that he needed him. Sam picked up his pace and bounded up onto Bobby’s porch and through his front door. Sam would eat supper with Bobby and then he would head out to Lawrence to talk to Missouri. Sam was getting his brother back, no matter who he had to go through to do it.

\--

Dean was almost asleep when some asshole banged on the bars of his cell door with a metal pipe. He was on his feet in a fighting stance before he’d even had a chance to process the noise and the Lanista gave him a nod.

“Good reflexes,” he said. “Get your gear on; training starts in ten minutes.”

The…what had Grady called it? A manny-ki? Whatever it was called, getting it onto his left shoulder and upper arm and fastened across his upper back was awkward without Grad to help, but he managed it with only a few curses.

Dean was still lacing up his second sandal when a guard appeared at his cell door and cleared his throat.

“Let’s go, Slave.”

Dean ignored him and, predictably, a moment later he was gritting his teeth as the guard delivered a short, sharp burst of bone-tingling pain through the wrist band.

Dean looked up. “That ain’t gonna make me go any quicker. These laces are a bitch.”

The guard sneered. “Take your time, Slave. No skin off _my_ back if you report late for training.”

Dean finished tying up his sandal and stood. The guard told him to stand in front of the cell door, several big steps back from it, and to put his hands on his head. When Dean was in position, the guard unlocked the door and stepped back, motioning Dean out of the cell.

There was a second guard waiting outside and he told Dean to follow him. The first guard brought up the rear and Dean didn’t need to look to know that his finger was poised over the button on his wrist controller, ready to zap Dean again, if he should step out of line.

Dean took advantage of his first time out of the cell to gather as much intel as he could about his surroundings. They were obviously deep underground, judging by the cold, the damp and the long shadows; the way the artificial lights barely fought back the gloom in the large cavernous space.

And it _was_ large. His cell was one of six all in a long row and there were another six, way over on the opposite side of the cavern. Each cell was recessed deep into the stone of the cavern, so that even if you stood with your face pressed against the bars of the window, visibility was limited, adding to the feeling of isolation.

In between the two sets of cells, there was a huge expanse of space in which there were four large squares of sand, spread out in a row. Each one was about 20ft square by Dean’s reckoning, and they were all about ten feet apart. Next to each sandpit was a tall chair, like the ones tennis umpires used.

In the very center of the cavern there was a line of gladiators, guards behind them, and in front of the gladiators were half a dozen men—including the Lanista—dressed in togas. Dean couldn’t help his eye roll, but he managed to restrain his urge to quip about steam rooms and toga parties. Given the Lanista’s earlier suggestion that Dean could earn extra kill points by volunteering to be a fuck toy, a joke that could be misconstrued as him volunteering to get naked and sweaty with the guys in charge was probably something he should take a pass on.

Besides, these guys didn’t seem to like any attitude from him and Dean had just spotted a St Andrew’s cross behind the dudes in the togas. He’d spent enough time tied to one of those in Hell to be completely uninterested in a reprise; especially given that his flayed skin wouldn’t be restored with a hand wave here.

As Dean got closer he could see that there were also several trunks filled with wooden swords, lassos, whips, nets, clubs, shields and wooden spears behind the toga guys.

And then he spotted Walt.

“Hiya Walt,” he called out, and was promptly rewarded with another short, sharp jolt of pain.

“No talking,” the guard at his back hissed.

Walt though, turned to look and when he spotted Dean his face went slack and grey and his eyes widened.

“I’m back, you son-of-a bitch. And I’m pissed.”

“I said, _no talking_!”

The pain lasted longer this time; Dean could feel his bones throbbing and aching, but he clenched his jaw and breathed through it and didn’t break stride.

Everyone’s attention was on him now and when Dean’s guards delivered him to the line of gladiators, the Lanista came and stood before him.

“Getting into trouble already, Decimus.”

Dean summoned his trademark smirk. “What can I say, I have a problem with authority figures and I don’t respond well to threats.”

The Lanista inclined his head, a smirk of his own playing on his lips. “Hmm,” he said and moved his hand slowly to his wrist controller. Dean lifted his chin.

“Let me tell you what I have a problem with,” the Lanista said. “I have a problem with uppity slaves.” He pressed a button on his wrist controller and this time it was the full whack, sending Dean to his knees in a flood of agony.

By the time it was over, he was in the fetal position, his face—and the sand beneath him—wet with tears.

“Get up,” the Lanista said dispassionately.

Dean took a surreptitious deep breath and then climbed unsteadily to his feet. There was no lingering pain, but his hands were trembling.

“Step out of line again today and I’ll have you whipped. Do you understand?”

Dean nodded curtly, his eyes flicking briefly to the St Andrew’s Cross.

“The correct response is, ‘ _Yessir_ ’.”

 Dean picked a spot over the Lanista’s shoulder. “Yessir,” he said flatly.

“All right,” the Lanista clapped his hands. “On with the show. Doctores, teams of two, half an hour on each weapon, a short break, and then they’ll switch partners, reprise,” he picked up a clipboard and scanned it. “I want Una with Septimus, Quartus with Octavus, Quintus with Sexta and Nonus with Decimus. Master Sword, Una and Septimus are with you--” the Lanista matched each set of gladiators with a master.

Dean was with Master Hand, which made him roll his eyes again. Seriously? Could these guys be lamer dicks? The trainer called for Decimus and Nonus and began walking away. Dean followed and so did Walt.

Dean sniggered. “Nonus? Really?” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

Walt glowered, but didn’t respond.

Dean and Walt spent the next half hour in hand-to-hand combat.

Walt was Dean’s height, but a little heavier than he’d been when he’d shot Dean dead. He had a beard now too and even though he could move quite stealthily, he wasn’t fast on his feet.

Despite all the cheeseburgers that Dean ate, underneath his many layers he was actually still quite slender. Lithe and light on his feet, he was able to dance out of Walt’s reach easily during their first round, taunting him into chasing after Dean and taking useless outraged swings at him. Eventually, Walt got weary enough that Dean was able to skip past his defences and lay him out flat.

Master Hand watched from the sidelines with a bored expression.

He waited until Walt staggered back to his feet and then shook his head and sighed. “Pathetic. You let him goad you,” he turned to Dean. “And you. I want a _real_ fight this time. This is training. I want to see all your moves.”

Over the half hour, Walt got a few punches in, but he didn’t take Dean down once.

“Nice moves, Nona,” Dean clapped Walt on the shoulder as they moved across to Sword training. “Hey? Isn’t that Italian for Grandma? Sounds about right, the speed you move.”

“Fuck you, Winchester,” Walt said evenly. “Everyone knows they should’ve put you with the monsters, not with us, you fucking undead piece of shit.”

Dean stopped walking and smiled. It was his patented _Dean Winchester is about to rip your throat out_ smile and it was just as effective on Walt as it was on demons and monsters.

“And how did I get dead, Walt? Oh that’s right. You _murdered_ me in cold blood. Me and Sam. It must really piss you off to know that _God himself_ brought us back. He had plans for us. We _mattered_. But you?  You’re nothing. Just a pathetic, dickless coward. You shot us, and God snapped his fingers and fixed your stupid mistake.”

Walt turned an interested shade of puce, but before Dean could twist the knife a little more, Master Sword let loose with a piercing whistle, his face dark with disapproval. Dean and Walt hurried to his patch of sand and Master Sword got right up in Dean’s face, so close that Dean could smell the smoked salmon and egg roll he’d had for lunch.

“One complaint, Slave, just _one_ and the Lanista will have the skin flayed from your back. Am I going to have to make that complaint?”

“No Sir,” Dean said.

Master Sword retrieved two wooden swords from a nearby box.

“Really?” Dean grumbled. “I fucking hate wooden swords.”

Master Sword raised an eyebrow. “You’ve trained with wooden swords before?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. When we were kids our dad used them to train us, wouldn’t let us move on to the real thing until Sammy was fifteen. My brother’s really good with a sword. Even better with throwing knives.”

Master Sword’s eyes were alight with interest. “How old were you when you started training?”

Dean chewed on his bottom lip as he tried to remember. “Six, I think. Some of the earlier stuff might’ve been training too, but I just thought it was playing, you know?”

Master Sword looked at Dean with approval. “Your father was a smart man.”

Dean looked at the sword master closely. There was something in his tone, something that made Dean suspect he might actually have known John Winchester.

“Yessir, he was,” Dean said. Maybe if he sucked up to the trainers and impressed them with his awesome skills they might let slip with some important information. Something he could use to escape. It was worth a try.

“What do you consider your best weapon?” Master Sword asked.

“I’m good with guns,” Dean said and the Master Sword’s lips turned down. “Seriously. For training, Dad used to make us shoot our pistols at targets fifty-five yards away. The guy who won Gold in the 50 Meter Pistol event at the Atlanta Olympics? When I compared his winning score to the scores I was getting in training, I was better. I’m good with a long gun too. Dad used to say the only time I could stay still for more than five minutes was when I had something in the crosshairs.”

Master Sword nodded. “A natural predator. We don’t use guns here, of course, but let’s see how you handle the sword,” he handed Dean a wooden gladius and then gave one to Walt who was glowering sullenly beside him. “An on-target touch stops the action, so that I can assign points. En garde.” 

Fifteen minutes later Dean had ‘killed’ Walt nine times and Walt had scored one point, for a ‘scratch’ to Dean’s forearm.  

Dean spent the rest of the half hour session duelling with Master Sword. He ‘killed’ Dean more often than Dean ‘killed’ him, but the fact that he was more than holding his own against the sword master soon drew a crowd of onlookers. Their last bout, which ended with Dean on the floor with the tip of the wooden sword at his throat, even drew a round of applause.

“He was an excellent choice for recruitment,” Dean heard Master Sword say to the Lanista, as he and Walt made their way to the next sandpit to train with nets and lassos.  “Of course, with his bloodline I suppose there was never any doubt. Such a shame we couldn’t recruit his brother too.”

Dean’s ears pricked up at that. Why _hadn’t_ they tried to grab Sam too? They obviously knew who the Winchesters were; they had to know that Sam would come for him. Why not alleviate that risk by taking him too?

“Focus!” Master Whip snapped and the only part of the Lanista’s answer that Dean managed to hear was ‘damaged’.

\--

Missouri’s hair was a little greyer than it had been the last time Sam saw her, and he thought she might be a little heavier too…until her hands went to her hips and her eyes widened and then he concentrated on thinking that she looked good; healthy (which she did).

Missouri snorted. “A lot healthier than the last psychic you consulted. Poor Pamela, got her eyes burned out and then got stabbed,” she shook her head and then turned away.

“Come on, boy,” she called over her shoulder as she headed into the house. “What are you waitin’ for? An engraved invitation?”

Sam followed after her into the living room, which was much the same as Sam remembered it; an old sofa with a brown, cream and orange striped woollen throw rug tossed over the back, round lacquered lamp tables, a big-leaved pot plant in the corner, a glass topped coffee table littered with magazines and white lacy doilies everywhere. Missouri was sitting on her sofa and she patted the seat beside her.  She gathered one of Sam’s hands in both of hers when he sat down beside her and held his gaze.

“Oh, Sam,” she said.

Sam looked down at their hands.

“No,” Missouri said firmly, “don’t you go feelin’ like that. You were manipulated by powerful, ancient beings who’d been plotting their endgame for generations. And you and Dean still managed to get the better of them in the end.”

Sam swallowed. “A lot of good people died because of us.”

“No, sweetheart. They died because of the angels and the demons. And Dean’s right, you know?” She looked up at him sharply. “You gotta stop scratching at that wall. I know you want to fix anything bad you did while you didn’t have your soul, but if that wall comes down, it _will_ kill you. I can sense your soul, Sam and it’s _ragged_. So torn and frayed. But the blackness I sense _behind_ the wall? Don’t mess with it, Sam.”

Sam shook his head, he wasn’t going to argue with her, but he didn’t want to talk about it. “So, uh, I’ve come to see you because--”

“Because Dean’s missing,” Missouri concluded, her hand fluttered to her lips. “Oh no,” she looked down at the black Led Zeppelin tee-shirt that Sam was clutching in his other hand. “That his? Hand it over.”

Missouri held Dean’s tee shirt in both hands and pressed it up against her chest. She closed her eyes and Sam could see the rapid movement of her eyes behind her eyelids. 

“He went to help a friend who was hurt. He was at the door. Room 12. And then,” Missouri’s eyes began to flicker even more rapidly behind her closed lids. “He heard a noise.  And he turned,” Missouri gasped. “Tasers. Two men with tasers,” she opened her eyes. “They knocked him out cold and after that, I just can’t get anything.”

Missouri looked up at Sam. “I’m sorry, Sam. He was alive when they took him. But where that is,” she shook her head. “He’s either in another dimension or wherever they’re keeping him is well-warded.”

Sam asked her if she’d seen a white van and Missouri nodded. She closed her eyes again and held up a finger. When she looked back at Sam she shook her head. “Dean only saw it side on. I didn’t recognize the make and I couldn’t see the plates.”

Missouri fixed them sandwiches and they talked well into the afternoon, brainstorming who was most likely to be kidnapping hunters. Sam was acutely aware that they were just guessing; they didn’t have enough information to go on and his frustration was building.

While Missouri made coffee, Sam rang Bobby and confirmed that there was definitely a white van involved in the kidnappings. He also suggested that Bobby should start putting the word out, warning hunters that they were being targeted for kidnap and advising them to call and talk in person to any hunter who texted asking for help or a meet up.

Bobby agreed that he would do that.

Sam drank his coffee quickly and then said good bye to Missouri, turning down her invitation to stay in her spare room. Sam wasn’t good company right now; he needed to _do_ something. Maybe he should summon a demon? Torture it for information? Or maybe he should take a leaf out of his brother’s book and burn out his frustration in a bar fight.

Sam checked into a motel and spent a few hours poring over police databases looking, again, for information about white vans and kidnappings. He found one case in LA involving a child, but he doubted it was related to his case.

Sam slammed his laptop shut and picked up his keys and his phone, planning to head out to the nearest bar and dare some asshole to look at him wrong.

He didn’t get that far. 

\--

Fucking Keystone. In a can. It was like drinking cold piss. Dean imagined.

Still, alcohol of questionable quality was infinitely better than no alcohol, so Dean drank it. Maybe not with relish, but it did a passable job of washing down the hot beef stew and biscuits.

His meal finished, Dean stretched out on the cot. He’d changed back into his dress and he had nothing to do now except let the food settle in his belly and wait for someone to come and escort him to the Arena. 

A running sheet of sorts had been delivered with his meal. Tonight Dean would be going up against a vampire and (assuming the vamp didn’t kill him) he would be taking part in the grand finale, which involved all of the hunters taking on a small horde of zombies. Dean grinned. Killing zombies was fun.

Dean folded his arms behind his head and remembered the last time he’d been locked in a proper prison cell. He’d spent plenty of nights in holding cells throughout his life, most recently last November in Indiana when he’d thought the DA was a fairy and attacked him. Dean grimaced. Not one of his finer moments.

Police station holding cells were a very different ball game to a real prison like Green River County Detention Center, though. It was almost five years since he and Sam had gone in there to hunt a ghost that was killing prisoners. Dean had spent the first night slouched on his cot, worrying about Sam. The guy in Dean’s room had been quiet and Dean was confident he could take him if he had to. The guy in Sam’s cell had been freaking huge; way bigger than Sam. And if Sam’d had one mark on him the next morning, Dean would’ve gone after the guy, screw the hunt.  But Sam had been okay.

Truthfully, the experience of being in prison hadn’t fazed Dean as much as he’d expected it to. The food was all right. He won a lot of cigarettes playing poker. And he only had to get into a couple of fights. Sam had thought it was weird how well Dean had fitted into the prison environment, but Dean had shrugged it off.  

If Sam were here now, he’d probably think it was weird that Dean wasn’t more upset about this kidnapping than he was. He wasn’t happy about it, sure. But he meant what he’d said to Grady earlier. He was getting three hots and a cot and all he was going to have to do was kill some monsters, which was his usual job anyway.

And he’d enjoyed the training they’d done today; it had reminded him of simpler times, the days when his dad was in charge and saving the whole freaking world again and again wasn’t sitting squarely on his shoulders.

Dean was still going to escape as soon as he could, but in meantime, he couldn’t really say that he was unhappy. If sucking up to the trainers and being apt pupil boy made them discount him as a threat, then surely that would make escape easier than if they were suspicious of him and being super vigilant around him.

Dean closed his eyes and relaxed completely, letting himself get into the zone. He wished he had his favorite machete with him. He liked its weight and its balance and he really liked beheading vampires with it.

When the guard came for him, Dean was already dressed and waiting several steps back from the cell door with a wolfish grin and a glint in his eye.

“Take me to kill monsters,” Dean said to the guard.

\--

When Sam opened the motel room door he found a man and a woman standing on the doorstep. The woman looked like Oprah Winfrey, circa Sam’s grade school days, complete with big hair and a ruffled blue blouse underneath a loud purple cardigan. The man looked like he’d stepped out of a Michael Jackson music video.

Sam had a bad feeling about them.

“Can I help you?” he asked

The woman smiled; all teeth.

All _two sets_ of teeth.

“Alpha wants to see you,” she said.

There was a stretch limousine with darkly tinted windows idling out in the parking lot.

Sam swallowed. “And if I say no?”

The male vamp’s lips twisted, like he’d been sucking lemons. “Alpha guarantees you safe passage. He just wants to talk.”

Sam had met Lenore and her crew; he knew that evil was largely a choice with vampires, and with a lot of other monsters. If they weren’t actively killing humans, Sam favored leaving them to get on with the accident of their birth or turning, unmolested. It was something he and Dean didn’t quite see eye to eye on, but Sam believed the Alpha vamp when he gave his word that Sam would be safe.

“Okay,” he said, with a decisive nod. “Lead the way.”

Not that he couldn’t find the limo without their guidance; it was right opposite him. He just didn’t want them at his back.

The Alpha was in the back of the limo and Sam slid in beside him when Oprah opened the door.

“My children are being taken again,” the Alpha said without preamble.

Sam nodded. “Hunters too. Do you have any leads?”

The Alpha turned his gaze on Sam and suddenly Sam could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He felt dizzy and his face was hot and tingly.

“What…?” he managed to get out, one hand outstretched toward the Alpha.

The sensation stopped, like a tap had been turned off.

“My children show me what they see,” the Alpha said. “Unfortunately, I can’t share that with you. You are too…human.”

Sam wasn’t quite sure what to say to that so he just nodded and then asked the Alpha what his children had seen.

“They see locked cells, deep underground. They see guards. They see hunters in an arena. They see an audience,” the Alpha paused and steepled his hands in front of his face. Sam watched, entranced as the Alpha’s fingernails began to grow into long, lethal-looking talons. “They see death. It seems they have been captured in order to fight against your hunters, for the entertainment of paying guests.”

“Do they recognize any of the people holding them captive?”

There was a very long pause and then the Alpha said in a carefully modulated tone, “I recognized several of the guards that my children saw. They were also guards at the facility where Samuel Campbell kept me imprisoned at the behest of Crowley.”

For one very brief moment Sam wondered if the Alpha intended to kill him and then he dismissed the idea. In his experience supernatural creatures kept their word far more consistently than humans did.

Still, he had to swallow a couple of times before he was able to ask the Alpha if he thought Samuel Campbell was behind the kidnappings.

“Samuel,” the Alpha said, “or someone from his team. The Campbell Compound is in Lansing, Michigan, is it not? And I believe it has a substantial number of underground bunkers. Perhaps you should start searching there?”

He then fixed Sam with a deeply unsettling smile and said that if Sam found and released the hunters, but killed the captive vampires, they were going to have a problem. Sam believed him. He wasn’t sure how releasing the vamps would go down with the other hunters, but he gave the Alpha his word that he would.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a high-tech electronic steel door at one end of the training area, which Dean’s guards were able to access with their wrist controllers. It led through to what Dean immediately dubbed ‘backstage’, a narrow corridor with doors coming off it on one side and on the other side, a tunnel that led toward an iron gate. Through it, Dean could see bleachers that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a Cowboys game. The stadium looked packed and the thrum of excited chatter was audible.

Dean was marched past the tunnel and taken to a holding area where he was locked in with all the rest of the captive hunters. It was the first time they’d all been left together unsupervised. Dean swept his eyes quickly over the cell and noted the six security cameras mounted on the ceiling. He spun slowly and took in all the hunters before fixing his gaze on one particular hunter and smiling widely, his eyes flat and cold.

“Hi Walt,” he said.

Walt swallowed and took a small backwards step before he could stop himself.

“Security cameras,” Grady warned, pointing.

Dean turned his back on Walt. “Annie,” he said, moving over beside her. “How are you?”

Annie grinned, her usual flirtatious smile. “Well I’m still kicking. So good, I guess. How you been, Dean?” She put a hand to his upper arm and leaned up for a kiss. 

Their lips had barely touched when Annie gasped and flinched away.

“No fraternizing!” shouted a voice from outside the holding area.

Dean frowned as he realized Annie had been punished for trying to kiss him.

“Oh come on,” he said. “We’re old friends.”

“No fraternizing,” the voice repeated.

“And what d’you mean, _old_?” Annie demanded, smacking his arm.

Dean looked at her closely. “Are you okay?”

Annie’s lips pulled into a sad smile. “Eh, that was just a warning. Besides,” her eyes flashed with mischief, “totally worth it.”

Dean smiled and patted Annie on the arm, before heading to the back wall where Tamara was sitting, cleverly positioned to keep her face hidden from all of the security cameras. She was staring straight ahead, like a battle-weary soldier haunted by something no one else could see. Dean calculated the angles, as if he were lining up a pool shot, and then sat opposite her with his own face similarly hidden from the cameras.

Tamara looked up at him. “Dean Winchester. I always knew you were more than just a pretty face.”

Dean smiled. “So no microphones or sound recording in here?”

“No. But there are guards outside who’ll get suspicious if we keep talking quietly. So. Did you get kidnapped too, or is this a rescue?”

Dean admitted that he’d been kidnapped, but that he was sure Sam would come for him.

Tamara’s lips thinned. “The wrist cuffs? Do not come off. I’ve tried everything. So whatever Sam’s got planned, I hope he’s got some seriously heavy-duty mojo behind him or we’re all dead.”

“What do you know about--” Dean began, but was interrupted by the guards banging on the cell door. “Una, Decimus, break it up!”

“Go,” Tamara said, going back to her thousand yard stare.

Dean got to his feet without argument. He alternated between leaning against the wall and pacing. He watched as other hunters were led from the cell and then brought back again fifteen minutes to half an hour later, always sweaty and dishevelled, sometimes bruised and bloodied.

Reggie. Tim. Annie. Tamara.

Roy came back with a broken arm and blood dripping from a gash in his temple. Dean didn’t care.

Grady came back limping and holding his arm gingerly against his body. Dean got him some water from the barrel in the corner and held it up to the older hunter’s lips while he drank.

“Werewolf,” Grady said. “An old one.  Wolf born. Wily bastard.”

Dean frowned. “What do you mean, _wolf born_?”

Grady coughed. “Born a werewolf, not turned. You haven’t run across those before?”

Dean shook his head.

Grady grunted. “They’re real dangerous. In full control of their shifts. Don’t have to wait for a full moon.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Shit. That don’t sound good.”

“Decimus!” The guard at the door called out to Dean. “You’re up.”

Dean got to his feet and rolled his shoulders. “All right. Let’s do this. Let’s go entertain the people.”

He was led to the gate. Beyond it he could hear a man with a microphone pumping up the crowd. He heard his gladiator name mentioned and then some death metal song started blasting out of the arena’s speakers. The gate clanked open and Dean was pushed through the gate and out onto the sand.  

The arena was much smaller than your typical sporting stadium, but there were still at least five hundred people in the audience, and that surprised Dean. He hadn’t realized that so many people knew about the supernatural. He inclined his head. Maybe they weren’t all _people_.

Dean ran his eyes over his surroundings until he spotted the small booth, high up in the stands, which he thought was probably where the person in charge of the fucking awful music was sitting. It had a platform in front of it, which is where the MC was standing with his microphone.

Dean pointed at him and then very obviously put his fingers in his ears and shook his head. “Your taste in music sucks,” he yelled. “Next time, you introduce me with good music.”

The music cut off abruptly and the MC announced that the hunter’s opponent, a vampire (the crowd booed and hissed), would be released into the arena. The gong, he said, would signal the beginning of the fight.

A gate on the opposite side of the arena screeched open. Dean turned to face it and watched as a blond man in his twenties hurtled across the sand toward him.

Shit.

“What about the gong?” Dean yelled.

 Weren’t they supposed to wait for the gong?

The crowd booed at the vampire.

Okay. Apparently the vamp wasn’t waiting for permission to come at him. Dean wondered if they kept them hungry.

He cast about and spotted a pile of weapons lying in the sand in the middle of the arena. He ran for them, and the clang of a gong reverberated throughout the stadium.

Dean rolled his eyes and continued to charge forward. The vamp was quicker, though, reaching the weapons and picking up a machete. He swung at Dean and Dean went to his knees, his momentum making him skid past the weapons. He picked up an axe on the way past and then threw himself onto his belly when he felt a stir of air, as the vamp’s machete swung again, far too close to his head for comfort. Dean rolled onto his back and swept the vamp’s legs out from under him, causing him to fall flat on his back. Dean was on him a microsecond later, pressing the axe hard against the vamp’s neck. The vamp flailed and snarled, his fangs descending as he arched and bucked and twisted, trying to throw Dean off. Dean sat tight, his thighs squeezed around the vamp’s torso, and threw all his strength into pressing the axe down. The vamp’s neck split open and a massive spray of arterial blood spattered Dean’s face, neck and chest as the vamp’s head was severed from his body.

Dean’s heart was thumping loudly in his chest. He looked up, his breath harsh in his throat, and realized that the thumping beat was being echoed by the crowd who were stamping their feet and clapping their hands. The faded white noise of them rushed at him and he flinched at their roaring approval, at the bloodthirsty chants of _kill, kill, kill_ that were slowly turning into _head, head, head._

Dean glanced at the MC who mimed picking the head up by its hair and showing it off to the crowd. Dean looked down at the head. The vamp had been young when he’d been turned, no more than mid-twenties, and he had been conventionally handsome; high cheek bones, full lips, big eyes. He’d had a life. People who loved him. And getting turned into a monster probably hadn’t been any part of his life plan. Dean had no problem putting down monsters that were dropping bodies, but this?  Dean got to his feet, brushed himself off and then walked slowly back to the gate. This was wrong. Killing a sentient being for sport was fucked up. And maybe they could make him do it, but they couldn’t make him celebrate it. He stood before the gate, his back to the crowd and waited to be returned to the holding cell.   

\--

“I don’t like it,” Bobby said.

Sam nodded. He pushed back from the table and went to the fridge, helped himself to a beer.

“Okay,” he said, fishing the bottle opener out of the sink and opening the bottle. “Suggest a better plan.”

Bobby harrumphed. He took his baseball cap off, scratched his head and then flung the cap down on the table. “Goddamn it, Sam!” he said. “We need more information.”

Sam looked at the older hunter then; really looked at him. The man seemed to have aged a decade in the past twelve months and he was still wary around Sam, which Sam wasn’t going to pretend didn’t hurt a little. He had a soul now. Bobby could trust him.

Sam sighed and sat back down opposite Bobby. “We’ve got as much information as we’re getting. Cas confirmed that the Campbell compound has a large underground bunker that’s well-warded against pretty much anything, and your voodoo priestess friend from New Orleans confirmed that the whole area stank of blood magic. The warding can only be taken down from the inside, and no-one gets inside without an invitation. This is our best shot.”

Bobby scowled. “Well I don’t like it. We just got you back.”

Sam couldn’t help his grin; Bobby was fighting this because he was worried.

“Somebody has to go in,” he said reasonably. “And it’s my brother in there. So it’s my risk to take.”

Bobby sighed.  “Dean’s gonna have my head if anything happens to you on my watch.”

Sam’s lips twisted wryly. “I’m a grown man. My choices aren’t on anybody except me. Besides, if something does happen to me in there? It’ll be on Dean’s watch, won’t it? And he’ll be too busy beating himself up to come after you. Now, I’ve talked to Cas and this is how we think we should play this.”

Sam outlined the rest of the plan that he and Cas had cooked up and watched the concern and reluctance in Bobby’s eyes turn into resigned approval.  

\--

The second night Dean had gone out to fight they’d played _Eye of the Tiger_ as his theme music. Dean had flicked the MC a small salute, squaring his shoulders and narrowing his eyes as the crowd went wild.

He’d done well in the first night’s Zombie Apocalypse, taking his frustrations out on the drooling, putrid walking dead with relish.

Eyes glinting and manic grin firmly in place, Dean had become a whirling dervish of death and destruction, beheading reanimated corpses left and right and heroically rescuing Tim from certain death when he’d fallen and found himself surrounded.

As predicted, he’d quickly become a crowd favorite and the guards had taken great delight in relaying the After Hours offers that management had turned down on Dean’s behalf.

Apparently Mistress Zelda (whoever the hell she was) wanted to tie him down and ride him like a pony. Which was actually tempting. Unless Mistress Zelda turned out to be a 400 pound lizard-demon or something, in which case, _hell no_.

But the news that had really made Dean go ashen-faced, his heart pounding with the need to flee or fight was the news that Amon—Commander of the Legion and a good friend of Alastair’s—had offered a lot of money for the chance to fuck Dean.

Again.

Which actually told Dean a lot. It told him that the humans running this show were friendly with demons and that the witches warding the place were incredibly powerful. Grand Coven powerful, maybe, if they weren’t scared to say no to a high ranking demon.

Dean was actually pathetically grateful to the Lanista and his bosses for keeping Amon away from him, and that was a problem. He didn’t want to feel beholden to these assholes for anything. But just the thought of Amon, with his love of blood and pain, holding him down and pounding into him until he screamed for mercy, was almost enough to send Dean into the fetal position. 

So yeah, he was grateful. Didn’t mean he wasn’t still trying to figure out how to escape.

Dean’s next few fights had been easier on his conscience; his opponents had all been non-sentient—Dean didn’t even know what that thing with all the tentacles had been, he was just glad he’d been able to hack it to pieces before it managed to make good on its attempts to get up underneath his skirt.  

Now, Dean was in the arena once again, keeping his eye on the gate opposite and listening to the crowd chant _Decimus_ , _Decimus_. The Monster Gate creaked and groaned and slid slowly open.  It was only open a crack when a beautiful white-and-grey timber wolf trotted out into the arena, wagging its tail.

Dean’s eyebrows hit his hairline. Sam was the dog person in the family, but something about the wolf made Dean want to drop to his knees, open his arms and call out, _here boy_!

The wolf stopped in the center of the arena and turned into a naked man, with dark hair, big brown eyes and a collar around his neck. He stood and stared expectantly at Dean.

Dean swallowed. Okay then. He walked slowly until he stood opposite the…werewolf.

“I am Rowan of the Duval Pack,” said the werewolf. “I’m wolfborn; a pureblood and I do not hunt humans. None of us do.”

So, not a monster. Dean figured that’s what this guy was trying to say.

“Dean Winchester,” he replied. “You got a plan?”

“Give them a good, entertaining fight, but don’t hurt each other too badly; hope they choose to let us both live.”

It could be a ploy. Lure Dean into a false sense of security and then go all out and try really hard to kill him. Dean had no way of knowing if he could trust this guy.

Dean blew out air in frustration. “Okay,” he nodded. “But I’m gonna strap on the silver knife. And if you try to kill me, all bets are off.”

The werewolf—Rowan—nodded his agreement. Dean reached for the silver knife and strapped it to his thigh.

In the background the MC was giving fight stats and Dean was surprised to learn that Rowan had already survived twelve fights.

The gong to start the fight sounded and Rowan bowed slightly, before pulling back and beginning to circle Dean warily. Dean found himself mirroring the other man.

The fight itself reminded him of sparring with Sam, in the final weeks before Sam left for college. Sam’s heart just hadn’t been in it, but they’d had to keep Dad happy, so they’d learned to make it look good, while not hurting each other or expending too much energy.

Of course, Sam hadn’t been naked.

Dean took care to avoid Rowan’s junk, because that would’ve been a low blow; below the belt, quite literally. Still, it was awkward, especially when they were grappling on the ground with their legs wrapped around each other. No doubt Amon was sitting in a box seat out there somewhere, watching the fight with a hard-on, wishing that it was him trying to pin Dean to the floor.

The punch was unexpected and Dean put a dazed hand to his nose when he felt it dripping blood.

“What the hell?” he said.

“I’m mated,” Rowan said primly. “So you can stop freaking out. I have zero interest in you. Besides, we gotta make it look good.  They like us to bleed.”

Good point.

Dean slugged him back.

Dean and Rowan fought the full half hour and when the bout was over, the crowd roared its approval of them. They were both allowed to walk from the arena; bruised and bloodied, but unbowed.

Dean tried to put in a good word for Rowan with the rest of the hunters, but they were skeptical.

Monsters, Roy insisted, were monsters.

Dean argued that if they weren’t dropping bodies, they weren’t really monsters; which led to a debate about what constituted a _real_ monster.

Walt said that anything unnatural was a monster, but Grady agreed with Dean that an unnatural creature had to be killing humans to be classified as a monster. Walt then argued that by that definition, Dean and Sam should be considered monsters, because they’d both returned from the dead more than once, which was unnatural, and they both had an impressive body count—which included humans.

Dean couldn’t argue with that. He was a killer, he knew that. Slicing throats was what he was best at. He’d been killing sentient creatures since he was sixteen and he’d hardened himself to it, the way his dad had taught him, the way you had to if you didn’t want to lose your mind. Sometimes there were grey areas, though; Sam had told him more than once that things weren’t always black and white. Sometimes they’d killed things that didn’t need killing. Sometimes the line between good and evil got blurred.

Sammy, though, he always seemed to know where that line was. He could always see the good, in people and in monsters. Dean was more in tune with the darkness. But maybe that was just a reflection of what was inside of him.

“And Sam’s got demon blood,” Dean heard Reggie say. “The sick fuck drinks it too, just like a vamp that oughta be put down.”

Dean had to be dragged off him by the guards.

\--

Sam could feel eyes on him as he edged through the shadows toward the Campbell ranch house. According to Cas, both Samuel and Gwen were on a hunt in Ohio and the younger, more distant Campbell relatives and the hired help were playing poker in the outbuilding.

Sam used his lock pick to open the front door and then crept to Samuel’s office, which was locked. He picked the lock and moved the desk and went down into the hidden Campbell library.

He’d been quiet and cautious coming in, but not as quiet and cautious as he’d have been if he hadn’t wanted to get caught.

Bobby had done his part, putting the word out among the hunting community, making sure no-one was hunting alone, that no-one responded to text messages, that they spoke and used code words, and generally making sure that hunters were damn hard to catch. It was over a week now since Dean had vanished and several hunters had reported receiving texts from his phone, asking for their help. The Campbells were clearly still in the market for hunters and by now, they had to know that the hunting community was on to the cell phone scam. 

This next part of the plan was tricky. The Campbells had to believe that Sam had no idea that they were behind the kidnappings and they had to decide to kidnap him, rather than kill him. In case they decided on the latter, Sam had Cas on standby to yank him out. But if they decided to drag him down into the heavily warded underground bunker and then kill him, he was shit out of luck.  

Sam went through his grandfather’s book collection and took down all of the texts which were likely to have anything on the Rite of Obitus, a Roman ritual to bring a soul in purgatory back to the mortal coil. The Rite was more monster myth than anything and Bobby said he’d never heard of anyone getting it to work, but with everything that was going down with Crowley and the Campbells and the Mother of All Monsters, it seemed as likely a ploy as any for Sam to be investigating the Rite, which required the Blood of the Vanquisher to be successful.   

Sam spent an hour in the library, taking notes and muttering to himself (for the benefit of any listeners) that the monsters that were kidnapping hunters must be planning to sacrifice them in order to work the Rite of Obitus.

He stretched then, his muscles taut with the strain of inaction, and checked his cell phone, before getting to his feet, returning all the books to their rightful place and creeping out of the secret library. Sam’s heart was thumping behind his ribcage as he crept up the stairs toward Samuel’s office. He hoped he’d done enough to convince whoever was undoubtedly watching him that he should be kidnapped, not killed.

He never even saw what hit him.

\--

Dean had really fucked up; so much for keeping his head down, sucking up to the guards and trainers, and quietly figuring out how to escape.   

He paced the width of his cell like a caged tiger, trying to get rid of the excess adrenaline telling him to flee or fight, because neither was an option.

This morning, his breakfast had been served along with the news that, as punishment for going after Reggie last night, today, he was going to be flogged.

There would be no morning training session for Dean today. Instead he was going to be locked in his cell until after lunch (which he wouldn’t be getting) and then taken out to the training area, tied to the St Andrew’s Cross and whipped with a leather bullwhip. 

Fifty lashes.

Dean swallowed and fought down the bile threatening to rise in his throat.

Fuck.

Alastair had been a big fan of single-tailed whips; had liked the clean slices they made in human skin, the patterns he could make. There was artistry in a well-delivered whipping, he liked to say, and even though Dean had known that his skin wasn’t real down in Hell, it had still felt real when it split open.

Dean shuddered.

Fuck.

This time it would be as real as it felt.

Dean pressed himself against the bars of his cell window and watched what little of the training he could see from that vantage point.  Roy and Grady were both too injured for solo arena combat, and were exempt from training, although they were still being made to take part in each evening’s Zombie Apocalypse. Dean knew from the conversations between trainers he’d overheard that they were having trouble lately catching hunters. It seemed as if Sammy was working the case and had learned enough to figure out that all hunters were in danger of being kidnapped.

Dean retreated to his cot. He lay back and tried to relax, listening as his fellow gladiators were brought back to their cells from the morning training session.  He listened as their midday meal was brought to them.

Instead of lunch, Dean got a visit from the Lanista and Doctor Jones.

“On your feet, Slave,” said the Lanista.

“Bite me,” Dean didn’t even bother to look up, just gritted his teeth and endured the jolt of pain delivered by the wrist cuff.

“Let’s try that again,” said the Lanista, “and this time, try to remember that fifty lashes can easily become one hundred.”

Dean could feel himself shaking with the repressed desire to tackle the Lanista to the ground and beat on his smug face.  He stood up slowly and stared at the Lanista, letting his loathing show in his eyes.

The Lanista merely smiled. “Strip,” he said.

Dean knew that it was pointless to protest and the last thing he wanted to do was give the Lanista the satisfaction of forcing Dean to do something else that he obviously didn’t want to do. So he took off his clothes, quickly and efficiently, without a flicker of emotion.

The Lanista looked disappointed. “All yours,” he said to the doctor.

Dr Jones had Dean sit down on the cot. First he examined Dean’s back, running gloved fingers up and down his spine and prodding and poking. Next he took Dean’s temperature, then his blood pressure, and finally he got a syringe out of his black bag and withdrew three vials of blood from Dean’s arm.

“Okay,” he said finally, “you can get dressed.”

As Dean put on his ass-flossing jockstrap and his tunic, he watched Dr Jones scribble down notes on a chart with Dean’s gladiator name written at the top.

“Blood pressure’s a bit high,” the doctor said, “but consistent with the expected levels of stress for a subject in his position. I’m satisfied that he’s medically fit enough for his punishment to be carried out.”

Dr Jones signed Dean’s chart, tore it off the clipboard and handed it to the Lanista, who left the room.

It was almost funny, the way these guys tried to be bureaucratic and official, as if they were legitimate and not a bunch of criminals.

“So,” Dr Jones said, “do you have any questions?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. You seem like a smart guy. How did you get tangled up with these douchebags?”

The doctor pursed his lips. “Do you have any questions about your impending punishment?”

Dean stared at him. “I spent forty years in Hell,” he said. “I know torture. From both ends of the whip.”

The doctor’s eyes gleamed with interest. “I’d heard that,” he said. “Wasn’t sure I believed the tale. What was it like?”

Dean frowned. “Hell? It was hell. You do know you won’t get away with this, right? We’ll get free. And when we do? There’s gonna be a reckoning.”

The doctor inclined his head, his expression tight and thin-lipped. “I doubt that very much. But if there ever is a reckoning,” he smiled, “well, I was just following orders.”

“Try telling that to the doctors who got hanged at Nuremberg.”

Dr Jones’s smile faded. “You should take some time to compose yourself. The guards will be along shortly to take you to your punishment.”

After the doctor had gone, Dean looked up at the ceiling. “Uh…Cas? I know I’ve prayed to you a few times already, so I’m guessing maybe you can’t hear me, but uh, if there was ever gonna be a good time to angel air lift me out of here, you know…grip me tight and raise me from perdition…now’d be the time, man.”

Dean strained his ears for the fluttering of wings, but all he could hear were cell doors clanging open and the stomping of marching boots.

\--

Funny, he didn’t remember falling asleep. Sam opened his eyes, disoriented, and a wave of nausea hit him. Whoa. Also, head rush. He tried to lift a hand and couldn’t, but by then he’d noted the stone walls and he grinned, or maybe grimaced, but either way the plan was working, because this could only be the underground bunker.

Unfortunately, he was tied to a bed; and naked under this blanket if he wasn’t mistaken.

At least he knew what was going on, Sam reflected, which was a luxury Dean wouldn’t have had.  Sam looked around at the small cell where he was confined and then lay back and listened to the echoing clang of metal doors opening and shutting and hobnailed boots stomping against stone. Eventually several sets of boots stopped outside his cell.

Sam waited.

“Sam Winchester,” said a gleeful voice. “Lucifer’s true vessel. It’s an honor.”

Sam blinked. Was this guy a demon?

“And you are?” he asked politely.

“The Lanista of the Ludus Caledonia.”

“Oh,” Sam said. “Gladiators. That makes sense.”

The Lanista beamed at him. “You know your Latin. But then, you’re the smart brother, aren’t you? You were at Stanford, planning on studying Law until Azazel killed your girl.”

Sam scowled. “You’re a demon.”

The Lanista chuckled. “Me? No.”

Sam licked at his dry lips. So who was this guy? How did he know so much about Sam’s past? Was he a former hunter? Was he a Campbell? Sam didn’t recognize him, but then he didn’t recognize anybody from his soulless period. For all he knew, this guy could be his cousin and his soulless counterpart could’ve been bosom buddies with him for months. Also, screw him for implying that Dean was stupid. Dean was every bit as smart as Sam was and okay, Sam may have ribbed him about being a high school dropout sometimes, but only because Dean teased him first, calling him ‘geek’ and ‘college boy’. 

Speaking of Dean. “Do you have my brother too?”

The Lanista’s smile darkened. “Oh yes. In fact, you’ll be seeing him quite soon. In the meantime…”

The Lanista went on to explain the Ludus Caledonia set up and what would be expected of Sam going forward.  Sam had just turned down the Lanista’s invitation to sign up for After Hours use as a sex toy, when the guards let in a man in a white coat and—Sam’s eyes widened—Roy.

“You sonovabitch!” Sam snarled. “You stood there while your buddy Walt shot me!”

“Shot you dead,” Roy agreed. “You should be on the other side, in the monster cells with the other monsters.”

The final word was barely out of his mouth, when Roy fell to the floor, twitching and moaning.

Sam looked at the Lanista in alarm and the Lanista explained about the wrist cuffs that could give Agony or Death.

The doctor approached him then and pulled his blanket away. Sam’s cheeks reddened and he stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t think he’d felt this humiliated since high school.

The Lanista’s low, impressed whistle did nothing to curb his embarrassment.

“I bet we get more After Hours offers for you than we get for your brother.”

Sam’s eyes flashed up to the Lanista’s face. “He’s not--” he managed to stop himself asking the question, but he’d said enough.

The Lanista chuckled, but didn’t respond.

The doctor told Sam he’d been tasered and gave him something to combat the headache and the nausea. He told Sam that he’d be brought some food and water soon.

“I’m going to uncuff one of your arms now,” said the Lanista, “and then Octavus here is going to put a wrist cuff on you. Before we start, I’d like you to remember that your brother will be severely punished for any lack of cooperation on your part.”

The manacle on one of Sam’s wrists slid off and Sam dutifully held out his hand and allowed Roy to put the cuff on him. The green lights on the cuff turned to red and yellow and Sam wondered how the cuff worked, how it caused its wearer pain or death.

The Lanista released the rest of Sam’s manacles and bade him stand up.

Sam scrambled off the bed, pulling the blanket around his waist.

“Lose the blanket,” said the Lanista.

Sam’s eyes widened and he clutched the blanket even more tightly.

The Lanista pressed something on his wrist controller and Sam’s entire body trembled with discomfort.

The Lanista frowned. He swept a finger over his wrist controller and Sam’s bones began to ache.

Both the Lanista and the guy in the lab coat stared at Sam with something akin to awe. 

The Lanista cleared his throat. “Lose the blanket, or the pain will get worse.”

If Sam hadn’t been here on a rescue mission, he would’ve kept refusing, but he had a job to do and it would become infinitely harder if he were labelled a troublemaker. Besides, if he kept resisting they might punish Dean. Sam could deal with his own pain, but he knew he’d fold like a cheap suit if they threatened his brother.

Sam dropped the blanket, his face and neck heating as he did.

The doctor got out another syringe and a small plastic vial. “I’m just going to take some blood for testing,” he said.

The Lanista nodded and watched closely as the doctor found Sam’s vein and extracted a vial of the viscous red fluid. “Octavus here will help you change into your gladiator outfit,” he paused at the cell door and snapped his fingers. “Oh, and your new name is Undecimus.”

“Eleventh?” Sam wrinkled his nose. “Really?”

The Lanista and the doctor left and Roy sighed.

“Put this on,” he said, handing Sam some kind of leather thong.

Sam looked at it dubiously. That was going to be a tight fit.

“Look,” Roy said, as Sam struggled into the scrap of leather, “I don’t like you any more than you like me, okay? I don’t know what you are, but I know you ain’t natural. But you may be our best shot at getting outta here. What the Lanista did to you just now, with the wrist cuff?” Roy tapped his own. “It shoulda hurt.”

Sam frowned. “Well it didn’t tickle.”

“Maybe not, but you weren’t exactly rollin’ around on the ground in agony and you shoulda been. Maybe whatever hoodoo they got workin’ these things is thrown off by the demon blood in you.”

Roy handed him a leather skirt and once he had that on, Roy helped him put on some strapping around his shoulder and arm.

“Have you seen Dean?” Sam asked Roy. “Is he all right?”

“He’s okay. Started a fight with Reggie yesterday and I reckon there’s prob’ly gonna be some fallout from that, because he wasn’t at training today, but he’s okay.”

Roy left Sam’s cell and, presumably, was taken back to his own by the guards.

A young guy in a white tunic brought Sam a sandwich and a bottle of water and Sam had barely finished when the guards came to get him.

Sam asked them where they were taking him, but they refused to talk to him. He figured he’d find out soon enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was pacing again when the guards came to get him. One of them, the one whose eyes always gleamed with unholy glee whenever anyone got hurt or humiliated, ordered him to take off his tunic.

Dean gaped at him. He couldn’t be serious. Right? No way was Dean going out there wearing nothing but underwear that would’ve looked at home on a fetish website.

Only apparently he was, because the guard’s finger was hovering over the Agony button on his wrist controller and he was almost salivating with the desire to fuck Dean up; Dean didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

So he stripped off the tunic and produced the most shit-eating grin he could manage.

“You know usually I’d insist you buy me dinner first,” he said, “but I guess this,” he gestured at himself, “is pretty hard to resist.”

The guard sneered at him. “You think you’re funny? We’re gonna make you scream, Pretty Boy.”

Dean batted his eyelashes. “Promises, promises.”

The guard’s face was going purple and Dean congratulated himself on a job well done.

Fortunately, the other guard stepped smoothly in between them and guided his colleague to take point.

“Move it, Slave,” he said, falling in behind Dean.

As Dean moved out of his cell a slow, steady drum beat started up and he rolled his eyes, because _seriously_?

“You guys have watched way too many Spielberg movies,” he muttered.

“Shut up,” said the guard behind him.

Dean harrumphed. “Yeah, well. There better not be a crescendo of sad violins as our hero walks to his impending doom, because I don’t do chick flick moments.”

“I said, shut up,” the guard said again, this time adding in a jolt of pain for good measure.

“Dean!” a familiar voice yelled and Dean stopped so abruptly that the guard behind him walked into the back of him.

“Sam?” he shouted.

Dean had been steadfastly ignoring the guards, gladiators and togaed douchebags gathered near the St Andrew’s cross, but now he strained to see his brother among them.

“Dean!”

Ah, there. That commotion of arms and legs. Six guards trying to hold somebody down. Dean could see at least three of them jabbing desperate fingers at the buttons on their wrist controllers too. He shuddered.

“Move it!” the guard behind Dean began to shove him forward.

“Sam!” Dean shouted again. “Stand down.”

Sam stopped fighting so abruptly that four of the guards fell on top of him.

Dean sniggered. The guard dug his knuckles into Dean’s spine and pushed.

Sam was hauled to his feet, his eyes anxiously searching out Dean’s.

“What are you doin’ at Jabba’s palace?” Dean shouted.

“Enough!” Dean’s guard snarled.

Sam quirked a smile. “I’m on Endor not Tatooine.”

Dean grinned. Take down the shields from the inside. Nice.

Dean’s guards propelled him toward the St Andrew’s cross and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam stiffen.

“Dean?” Sam called, his voice questioning and uncertain.

A meaty thwack followed and Dean turned his head to see blood pouring from Sam’s nose. They made eye contact and Sam glanced toward the St Andrew’s cross and quirked an eyebrow. Dean shook his head. Sam’s mouth became a thin line, but he nodded and the poised-for-action tension left his body. 

This was good, Dean thought, as he was strapped face first to the cross, his arms and legs spread wide. Sam was here and he had a rescue plan.

Also, just knowing that Sam was out there was comforting.  Sam was the one person who Dean trusted to watch his back. And okay, it didn’t look like any amount of watching was going to save his back right now, but Dean took strength just from his brother’s presence.

For Sammy, he could be strong.

Dean swallowed as the last strap was tightened and the guards stepped away.

And even if he couldn’t, Sam wouldn’t judge him.

Master Whip moved into Dean’s line of vision. “Open,” he said, holding a black rubber bit gag in front of Dean’s face. Dean opened his mouth and clamped his teeth down on the bitter-tasting rubber. Master Whip fastened it behind his head.  

“One professional to another,” the whip master said quietly in Dean’s ear, “let me reassure you that I am well versed in causing a significant amount of pain without causing any serious or permanent damage.”

Dean couldn’t respond, gagged as he was, but what would he have said to that anyway? Gee thanks?

The whip master regarded Dean intently for a moment and then added. “If you feel like you’re going to pass out, don’t fight it.”

Master Whip moved away and Dean realized that he was trembling, just a little. Fuck.

“At Ludus Caledonia,” the Lanista’s voice boomed behind him, making Dean flinch, “we only fight in the arena. Fighting among yourselves is strictly forbidden. Decimus forgot that rule and now he will be punished. Begin.”

Dean jerked and bit down hard as the first hard, heavy lash cut just under his shoulder blades. He closed his eyes and promised himself that he wouldn’t make a sound.

The second cut landed just below the first and his nerve endings were still trying to process it when the third blow landed.

Dean dug his fingernails into the wood of the cross as lash after lash seared his back with hot pain.

Light sprays of blood showered his arms.

He cried out for the first time on the twelfth lash and each subsequent strike of the whip tore a muted scream from his throat. Hot tears slid down his face.

It wasn’t like Hell, not really. In Hell the pain was greater, but at the same time less real. Somehow it _was_ different when it was actually happening to your living body. Dean held onto that. He savored the reminder that this wasn’t Alastair; that he wasn’t on the torture master’s rack in the pit. He was out. He got out. Cas got him out.

Dean lost count of the lashes, along with the strength to cry out, somewhere in the low-thirties. His head lolled forward and his body sagged against his bindings.

Pain had become the very center of his existence; the only thing he was certain was real. He held on to it, focused on it, embraced it even, for it told him something very important; it told him that he was still alive.

Gradually, Dean’s face began to feel as hot as his back and a roaring-wooshing sound began to fill his ears. The sound of the whip faded away and its cuts no longer hurt. Slowly, gratefully, mercifully, Dean slipped into unconsciousness.

\--

Dean awoke to burning agony and an overwhelming desire to throw up. He tried to raise himself on shaking arms but the effort was too much and his vision blurred.

“Lie still!” a voice instructed him. There was a sharp pain at his wrist, and then something cold crept up his arm and he felt himself slipping back into unconsciousness.

\--

The next time Dean awoke the pain was more manageable and the nausea had gone.

He remembered the voice from last time telling him to lie still and he turned his head.

He was back in his cell, lying face down on his cot, and Sammy was sitting slumped against the wall beside him, his legs stretched out next to the cot.

“Sam?” Fuck, but his voice was croaky.

Sam looked up at him and oh, somebody was getting their lungs ripped out. One of Sam’s eyes was swollen shut and his nose and lips were a mess of dried blood.

“Dean! Do you… Here,” Sam held a bottle of water up to Dean’s lips and he drank greedily.

“Who?” Dean asked, reaching out a hand for Sam’s face and then thinking better of the movement when it caused his back to seize with pain.

Sam put a hand up to his bloodied lips. “Eh,” he said. “The guards. They tried to stop me checking on you after--” Sam stumbled to a stop. “Apparently I’m unusually resistant to the wrist cuffs, so they just beat me up instead.”

Dean frowned. Okay. But why was he in Dean’s cell?

Except when they were training or waiting to go into the arena, the hunters were all kept apart. It was supposed to stop them from fraternizing and plotting to escape.

“How…here?” he asked.

Sam told him that the Lanista approved it, because Dean needed to be observed for twenty-four hours and it was better to waste Sam’s time than the doctor’s.

After the flogging, Dean had been taken down from the cross and Sam had nearly lost his shit when he’d realized that his brother was unconscious. The guards had held him back and wouldn’t let him go to Dean and he’d fought them like a feral creature, until, finally, the Lanista had promised that if he stood down and went quietly they would bring Dean to him when he’d been looked over by the doctor. Sam stopped fighting immediately. He was dragged back to the cells and thrown inside what turned out to be Dean’s cell.

He’d taken stock of his injuries (cuts and bruises only, nothing sprained, strained, dislocated or broken) and then seriously considered starting the spell to take down the warding. He’d been planning to wait for the seclusion of night time, unsure how often they were likely to be checked on during the day, but with Dean so badly hurt, he wanted Cas here _now_. Before he’d reached a decision, the doctor had appeared. He’d given him a quick once over and confirmed Sam’s own diagnosis.

“You’ll live, son,” he’d told Sam, clapping a hand on Sam’s bare thigh and squeezing, aiming for avuncular Sam thought, but landing on creepy and lewd instead.

“Your brother’s going to be just fine,” he’d added.

He’d told Sam that Dean was sedated in the sick bay. His back was being treated to ensure that infection didn’t set in and tests were being done to make sure there had been no damage to his spine and that his internal organs were all still functioning as they should.

Bile had risen in Sam’s throat. It hadn’t even occurred to him that the flogging could have seriously injured Dean. The knowledge that it had caused him severe pain had been bad enough; he’d had to stand by and watch as his brother’s back was torn open by a whip. When Dean had started screaming, it had taken every ounce of willpower Sam had to hold himself back, and he’d only managed it because he knew that if he lost it, it would only make it worse for Dean. 

He’d thanked Dr Jones for taking care of his brother and the doctor’s mouth had twisted. “He’s a valuable asset,” he’d said. “We don’t want him out of action for too long, it loses us money.”

An hour later, they’d brought Dean in, still out cold, his upper back wrapped in bandages.

Shaking his head, Sam looked at his brother, lying painstakingly still on the cot beside him.

“You want some more water?” he asked.

“Thanks.”

This time, Sam didn’t even let Dean lift his head; he’d noticed his brother’s grimace of pain last time. Instead, he cradled Dean’s head with one hand and slowly poured the water into his mouth with the other, until Dean had had enough.

“How long?” Dean asked.

“How long what? Were you unconscious? Have you been back in the cell? Until I get us out of here?”

“Yeah.”

Sam grinned.  “They kept you under for a few hours. You’ve been back in the cell about half an hour. We should be getting supper soon and then, when you think we’ll get at least an hour without any visitors, I’m gonna do some finger painting. Then we get outta here.”

\--

By the time their supper arrived, Dean had managed to sit up. It hurt like fuck and caused black spots to dance in front of his eyes, and Sam said it made him bleed through a couple of the bandages, but he did it.

And now he was cold. He even shivered, which, yeah, probably better to avoid shivering.

Sam was collecting their supper from the young guy who brought the food around. Dean still wasn’t sure of his status. He didn’t have a wrist controller like the guards did, so did that mean he was a prisoner here too?

“How’s he doing?” the guy asked. Dean looked away.

“As well as can be expected,” Sam said, in the polite tone of voice Dean remembered him using on nosy teachers and social workers when he really wanted to tell them to fuck off.

Dean shivered again. Ow. Fuck.

Sam put their food down on the ground and then gently draped the grey blanket over his shoulders. It hurt a little as it settled, but everything hurt right now and at least he wasn’t cold anymore.

Sam handed him a plastic bowl and a spoon.

“What the fuck?”

“It’s tomato soup.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. I see that.”

Dean looked at Sam’s burger enviously and Sam offered it to him immediately.

Dean shook his head. He wasn’t sure he could keep something that heavy down and the thought of how much it would strain his back if he threw up, made him pretty keen to avoid doing that.

“So hey,” Sam said brightly as Dean raised the spoon to his mouth, trying to ignore the way the movement made the blanket rub against his bandaged wounds, “do you know where you are?”

Aside from deep underground, Dean had no clue.

“The Campbell Compound. In an underground bunker.”

Dean stopped and stared, spoon half way to his mouth. _Samuel_ was behind this? Oh well, now he was going to kill him even deader next time he saw him.

“Some Grandpa we’ve got, huh?” he said.

Sam swallowed a mouthful of burger. “Well actually, we don’t have any evidence that he knows about this. But it’s hard to believe he doesn’t, given that this is his property.”

Dean gave up on the soup half way through. Lifting his hand to his mouth just hurt too much. He closed his eyes. He felt weak and shaky and his back still felt like it was on fire. He began to slump and Sam grabbed the bowl and steadied it and then took it out of his hands.

“You okay?”

“Peachy.”

“Do you want me to…” Sam trailed off and Dean opened his eyes to find his brother holding out a spoonful of soup.

His expression must’ve said it all, because Sam lowered the spoon immediately, looking sheepish. “I just thought you might still be hungry,” he said, unleashing the sad wide-eyed expression that Dean caved to almost every time.

“Not hungry,” Dean said.

“Okay,” Sam set his half-eaten burger and Dean’s bowl of soup down on the ground and then reached out for Dean’s hand.

“Dude!” Dean jerked away and then hissed through clenched teeth when the motion pulled at the cuts on his back.

“Relax,” Sam said, gripping Dean’s wrist. “I’m just gonna check your pulse. We don’t want you going into hypovolemic shock.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want that.”

Sam put a hand to Dean’s forehead. “You lost a lot of body fluids today, Dean. But you don’t feel cool and clammy and your pulse is strong and they probably had you on a drip for a while in the sick bay. We should still make sure we keep your fluids up, though, just to be on the safe side.”

He picked up the bottle of water and held it to Dean’s lips and Dean sighed and then opened his mouth and took a drink, because it was easier than arguing about how he was perfectly capable of holding his own damn water.

When Sam finally lowered the bottle, a trickle of water scurried down Dean’s chin and Sam wiped it away with a corner of the blanket before Dean could even lift a hand.

Dean glared at his brother. “I’m gonna take a nap,” he said. “If you’re still doing this mother hen routine when I wake up, I _will_ punch you.”

Sam obviously took that as permission to keep up the fussing until Dean fell asleep and  even though Dean protested that he didn’t need Sam’s help to lie down, being able to rely on Sam’s strength did actually make it easier and less painful to get face down on the cot.

And Sam’s fingers combing gently through his hair? Dean was just going to ignore that, because Sam was a giant girl and okay, maybe it felt kind of nice, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give Sam shit about it later, only then he’d have to acknowledge that it had happened, and his head really was too heavy and fuzzy for thinking right now.

Dean’s breaths became deep and steady and when Sam was sure he was asleep he stood slowly. He needed Cas in here yesterday, but he didn’t want to start the spell until he was sure he wouldn’t be interrupted and Dean had recommended he wait until the rest of the hunters were taken out to the arena for the evening’s fights.

Sam began to pace.  Dean was clearly in a lot of pain. Normally, he hid it when he was hurting; his stoicism was practically legendary. The fact that he couldn’t mask his grimaces; that the hurt was showing so clearly in his eyes, spoke volumes about the level of trauma he’d been dealt. Sam hated feeling so useless.

The supper-guy came and took their trash and Sam went and sat beside his brother. He wrapped his hand around Dean’s wrist and closed his eyes—or at least, he closed the one that wasn’t already swollen shut. He matched his breathing with Dean’s and let his brother’s steady pulse thrum against his fingers.  

Dean was here. Dean was alive. And Sam had a plan to get him out of here. He wasn’t going to let his brother down. Not again.

\--

Dean woke up with dry fuzz in his mouth and the metallic smell of too much blood in his nostrils. And pain. So much pain. The dull shuffle of footsteps made him open his eyes. Sam was standing with his back to the cot, doing something to the wall.

“Sam?”

His brother spun fast and Dean got a good look at the rows of Enochian symbols he was finger painting on the wall in his own blood. 

“You okay?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.”

“You need anything?”

“Cas’s mojo.”

Sam nodded and turned around, biting down on his forearm as he did and opening up a wound to get more blood.

“You want some of mine? It’s already leaking out.”

Sam froze, his back still to Dean. “Uh no.  The blood has to come from the one source or it could mess up the spell.”

Dean wasn’t sure he believed him, but he let it go.

Eventually, Sam stood away from the wall and made a series of hand gestures while reciting something long and complicated in Enochian. There was a flash of light and Dean blinked and when he opened his eyes again Castiel was standing in the room, his wings a black shadow on the wall behind him.

“I froze time when I came in,” he said, “and then unfroze the two of you.”

He tilted his head and peered at Sam. “You are injured.” He took a step forward and placed two fingers on Sam’s forehead and the blood, bruising and swelling was gone.

“Dean’s hurt worse,” Sam said. “You need to heal him.”

Cas turned and looked at Dean, his expression quizzical until Sam pulled back the blanket and then peeled off one of the bandages. Dean couldn’t help his hiss of pain and he closed his eyes against the inarticulate sound of outraged horror that Cas made. He felt the angel’s fingers on his forehead and the pain vanished.

“Who did this?” Cas demanded.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean climbed to his feet.

Castiel’s eyes flicked from Dean’s face to his groin and back again and then he turned his back quickly, his face flushed.

Dean put his gladiator outfit back on because it was awesome.

“Dude, how cool are these costumes?”

Sam shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “I didn’t know you had a gladiator fetish. You hated the movie.”

“Yeah, well, Russel Crowe’s a douchebag. But _Spartacus_? With Kirk Douglas? That was awesome.”

“Why _are_ you dressed like this?” Castiel asked. “I believe it’s been a while since such clothing was in fashion.”

Dean gaped at him. “A while. Yeah. I’ll explain later. First, we need to figure out a way to get these wrist cuffs off.”

Dean explained about the wrist cuffs and the controllers and Sam shared his theory that there was blood magic involved somehow. Castiel listened and examined Dean’s cuff closely and then he vanished.

“Oh. Okay then,” Dean threw his hands up in the air. “Is it just me or is he getting flakier?”

Sam shrugged. “You tell me. You’re the one with the profound bond.”

Castiel reappeared, holding the Lanista, who was still frozen.

“You are right, Sam. These controllers run on blood magic. If I open this,” he lifted up the Lanista’s arm and flicked a button on the controller which caused the external covering to slide back, “I should be able to wipe it clean of all the blood triggers,” he touched it briefly with two fingers. “And that,” Castiel closed the covering, “should render the device ineffective.”

He pressed the Agony button and both Sam and Dean braced for pain, but there was nothing.

“Still doesn’t come off though,” Dean tugged and poked at the cuff.

“I believe that if I wipe all the control devices clean we will be able to remove your cuffs.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “You do that. Me and Sam will go and take care of the monsters. Can you angel airlift us to where they keep them?”

Castiel reached out and gripped them both by the forearm and the world went cold and black for a second. When it reformed around them, they were in a large cavern similar to the one they’d been kept in. Cas nodded at them and blinked out again.

As they walked through the silent cavern together, past guards frozen mid-task, Sam tried to decide how to raise the subject of the vampires and how they were going to have to let them go or else risk the wrath of the Alpha vamp.  Beside him, Dean was rubbing at the back of his neck, something he only did when he was feeling uncertain.

“So, uh, we got some werewolves in here, Sam, but they ain’t regular werewolves they’re pure bloods—wolf born—and they can control their shifts and keep their human minds when they’re in wolf form.”

“Huh. How come we’ve never come across any lore on them? Or even heard of them?”

Dean shrugged. “Well apparently they ain’t dropping bodies so no reason why we would know about them, I guess. Anyway, they’re not monsters so we gotta let’em go.”

Sam nodded. “I agree. If they’re not killing humans, we’ve got no cause to kill them.”

“They’ve got collars, which I figure are like our cuffs, so we’ll have to wait for Cas to get them off,” he pressed his lips together. “I dunno how the other hunters are gonna feel about this.”

“Then we do it before we unfreeze them. Dean…we’ve gotta let the vamps go too. The Alpha vamp helped me find this place and he’ll come after me if we hurt his children.”

Dean didn’t like it, but he couldn’t risk Sam.

Unlike the hunters who were kept in small single cells, the monsters were kept in larger cells, caged according to type.

They passed the wolf cell, where six werewolves were frozen in wolf form; they passed the vampire cell, where four vampires were sitting like statues on the ground, and then they liberated a bunch of keys from a frozen guard, helped themselves to a couple of machetes from a weapons cupboard and went into the cell where fiftyish zombies and a dozen revenants were being kept. They decapitated them all in short order and then moved to the next cell, which contained a couple dozen ghouls, and decapitated them too.

There were several other cells, but they were all empty, so Dean figured whatever had been kept in there had been killed in the arena.    

They were both blood-spattered by the time they were done, so Dean poked around until he found the guards’ break area and adjoining restroom.

They rinsed the blood off, red splashes on white porcelain, and it wasn’t his blood, but Dean couldn’t quite contain his shudder, the crack of the whip echoing in his mind. He took his time splashing cold water on his face, his eyes closed and his hands shaking.

Cas had healed his physical injuries; he didn’t hurt anymore, but the memory of the bullwhip tearing into his flesh, the _helplessness_ and the shame, was still shockingly fresh.

Dean leaned on the basin, knuckles white, and raised his eyes to the mirror. He focused on his chin, on the scruff darkening his jaw and then tried to meet his eyes. He shied away quickly, the fear and shock still too bright and obvious.

Sam had gone into a cubicle, giving him time and space, and Dean hated that his need for a moment alone to pull himself together was so apparent.  He closed his eyes and thought of the whip and then he locked that shit down tight, pushed it into the steel box where he kept his worst memories. When he opened his eyes, when he met his own expression again, it was mostly Dean Fucking Winchester, who stared back at him.

Close enough for now. Most people wouldn’t know the difference.  

The toilet flushed.

Sam washed his hands. “You okay?” he said, not looking at Dean.

“Yeah.”

Sam turned then and leaned back against the basin, arms folded across his chest.

 _Please don’t,_ Dean thought desperately. _We’ve got shit to do and I can’t, I can’t deal with this yet._

Sam cocked his head. “When we get back to Bobby’s, we’re gonna order pizza and watch old movies and make our way through a bottle of whiskey. I’ll even watch _Spartacus_ with you, if you want.”

Dean could’ve cried with relief. Sam had always been into all that touchy-feely, talk it out, hug it out crap, but sometimes he was tuned in enough to realize that Dean didn’t need that. Right now, he felt exposed enough. He didn’t need to have any more flesh torn off; he needed help getting the mask back in place.

Dean wrinkled his nose. “I think I’ve had enough of gladiators for a while. How about we marathon some Clint Eastwood movies?”

Sam’s eye roll was epic. “Fine. But not the monkey ones. I’m vetoing the monkey ones.”

“What? Why?” Dean opened the restroom door. “Clyde is awesome!”

They found Cas waiting for them outside the werewolf cell.  He was holding a cardboard box half filled with wrist controllers.

“I have collected all of the people who were wearing wrist controllers and put them in several of the large empty cells. I have wiped all the controllers. Your wrist cuffs should come off now.” He pressed a button on one of the controllers and both Sam and Dean’s cuffs fell to the floor.

There was a series of clunks from within the werewolf cage and Dean turned his head to see that several of the wolves had lost their collars too.

“Can you unfreeze the wolves?” Dean asked Cas.

The wolves began to move and there were some startled yips as the wolves nosed at the fallen collars.

Dean pressed his face to the cell window. “Everyone’s collars should come off now,” he said and the wolves turned as one to stare at him.

“Cos that’s not creepy at all,” Dean muttered.  “Which one of you is Rowan?”

There was a ripple and then Rowan was standing naked on the other side of the cell door.

“Dean Winchester,” he said, and then looked beyond him to Sam and Cas and quirked a questioning eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “My brother Sam and our friend Cas. This is a rescue,” he rattled the keys.

Rowan stared at him. “I thought you hunted my kind?”

“My brother and me, we hunt monsters. Seems like you and yours might not be monsters. So.”

“You would let us go? Just like that?”

“Yep,” Dean unlocked the cell door and opened it. “Get out of here. Keep your noses clean, and we won’t have a problem. We’ll only ever come looking if bodies start dropping.”

A couple more of the wolves changed form.

“They took our clothes,” said a woman, “And our purses, wallets and cell phones. We’ll need those back.”

“You can’t just travel as wolves?” Sam asked.

“Oh we could,” a man said bitingly, “but having to cancel all your credit cards is a bitch.”

Cas cleared his throat. “There is an office,” he said and disappeared.

Rowan took a step back and gasped. “What…?”

“Angel,” Dean said.

“Get outta here,” said the woman. “There’s no such thing.”

“Oh there is,” Dean said. “And most of them are dicks. But Cas is all right.”

The angel reappeared carrying a large blue plastic box, full of clothes, shoes, wallets, cell phones, purses and weapons.

Dean peered inside. “Hey! That’s my gun. And that’s my shirt. No, wait. That’s yours Sam.”

While the Winchesters and the wolves got changed and found their belongings, Cas removed the vampires’ wrist bands and, at Sam’s request, he unfroze them and beamed them out of the compound.

By the time he was back he was looking pale and haggard. “You okay?” Dean asked.

Cas nodded. “Holding time frozen is exhausting, even more so when you begin to unfreeze small bits of it.”

“Yeah. I bet. You sure we’ve got all the wrist controllers?”

Cas said that he was.

“Should be okay to unfreeze time then. You and Sam go and free the hunters in the holding cell. I’m gonna go deal with the audience.”

“How are you gonna do that?” Sam asked.

Dean pulled his silver Taurus out from the back of his jeans and Sam’s brow creased. “Dean, you can’t shoot the audience.”

“Relax, I’m just gonna use my words. Although,” he frowned, “there are probably demons in the audience. Maybe witches too.”

“The demons left the moment I breached the wards,” Cas said. “They were not eager to stick around once they realized that Heaven knew of this place.”

“And witches are usually pretty big on self-preservation,” Sam added. “Once they realize that the power’s shifted, they probably won’t want to draw attention to themselves.”

Dean nodded. “All right. Let’s do this,” he turned to Rowan. “You guys get out of here. Me and Sam ain’t gonna hunt you, but I can’t speak for the rest of the hunters. Go for it, Cas.”

The audience roared and there was a lot of panicked chatter from the cells where Cas had put the guards and trainers. Dean grinned and made his way out to the arena, where Walt was doing battle with three zombies. A fourth was already lying face down in the sand with a crushed skull. 

Dean shot two zombies in the head, rapid fire, and the sickening wet crunch of the final zombie’s skull as it crumbled under Walt’s axe was clearly audible in the arena’s sudden hush.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dean shouted, holding up his fake FBI badge. “I’m Agent Anderson with the FBI. Please remain in your seats. An agent will be along shortly to arrest you for participating in an illegal fighting ring.”

The audience fled en masse and Dean grinned and then turned to Walt. “Oh look,” he said. “You. Me. A gun.”

Walt didn’t look scared so much as resigned.

“Lucky for you,” Dean said, “I’m not the monster you think I am.”

Walt licked at his lips. “You sure about that?” he said. “You’re moving pretty easy for someone who just took a whipping.”

“Yeah, well. I’m on the Angel Healthcare Plan. Every hunter should have it.”

Dean pressed the release button on the wrist controller he’d brought with him and Walt flinched, his eyes widening when his wrist cuff opened and fell off.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Get out of here,” Dean said, “before I remember how much I really want to shoot you.”

“What about the monsters?”

“Me and Sam already took care of them.”

Walt looked grudgingly impressed. “You’re one scary SOB, Winchester.”

Dean responded by pointing his gun at Walt and the hunter took the hint and ran out of the arena.

Back in the holding area, the hunters were changing back into their civvies and finding their wallets and weapons.

“Omigod, Dean!” Annie said when she saw him. “How are you upright, right now?”

“It’s a miracle,” Dean said, pulling her in for a hug.

“It isn’t really miraculous,” Cas appeared at Dean’s elbow. “I am an Angel of the Lord. I have the ability to heal.”

“Cas? Personal space, dude.”

Cas took a step back and Annie eyed him with interest. “An Angel. Really? They sure do make ‘em pretty in Heaven.”

Cas shot Dean a slightly panicked look. “I, uh, this is a vessel. Although Jimmy is dead now and I recreated this body at a cellular level for old time’s sake--”

Annie linked an arm through Cas’s and led him away from Dean. “I bet you’ve seen some interesting things in your time. Maybe we could do lunch one day? Talk history?”

Grady strolled across and clapped Dean on the arm. “Damn it’s good to be back in my own clothes again. I think I’m gonna salt and burn that gladiator outfit.”

“Yeah?” Personally, Dean was planning to keep his, but he didn’t want Grady to think he had some kind of gladiator fetish so he kept quiet.

“Sam says you’ve got the Lanista and the guards and everyone in the monster cells. What are we going to do with them?”

“And what about the monsters?” asked Roy.

“They’re taken care of,” said Sam. “But we should talk about what we’re gonna do with the guys who held us all captive.”

Roy, Walt, Reggie and Tim were in favor of killing them all.

(“And you call me a monster!” Sam said.)

Tamara, Annie, Grady, Sam and Dean vetoed that idea, but they couldn’t agree what they should do with them.

“Who are they, anyway?” asked Tim. “You rescued us, Sam, you must have some idea?”

Sam and Dean looked at each other and then Sam cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. It’s the Campbell family.”

Reggie frowned. “As in the hunting family?”

Annie’s hand was over her mouth. “As in your resurrected grandfather?”

Dean smiled flatly. “As in the guy I’ve already promised to kill the next time I see him. He may be blood, but he ain’t family.”

“To be fair,” Sam said. “We don’t actually know that Samuel knows about this.”

The rest of the hunters all looked as skeptical as Dean.

Tamara turned to Cas. “Do those cuffs still work?”

“Not at the moment,” Cas launched into a detailed explanation about blood magic, which Sam and some of the others seemed to be following, but which was all just blah, blah, blah to Dean.

He tuned out for a while and started fantasizing about the epic shower he was going to take when they got back to Bobby’s—and how sad was it that he was actually more excited about the soap and the shampoo, than the opportunity to get his dick in his hand?

“Dean?” Sam said.

“Huh?”

Sam patiently explained the plan the rest of the group had just agreed on.  If it worked, as well as they hoped, they might find out if Samuel was the real ringleader behind the whole slave-fighter ring.

And even if it didn’t, it would still be a fitting punishment.

\--

Dean stayed away from the branding. The screams and the smell of cooking flesh was just a little too reminiscent of Hell and a lot of those memories were close enough to the surface right now as it was.

Instead, he went topside with Sam.  They came up inside a small barn and found the young guy who’d brought the food around and emptied the toilet buckets sitting on a hay bale.

“Did you kill them all?” the guy asked.

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

Dean shook his head. The guy looked a lot younger in jeans and a tee-shirt, probably still a teenager. “What are you doing here?” Dean asked.

The kid shrugged. “Waiting for my dad, I guess. I came up here when the audience all ran out.”

“Who’s your dad?” Sam asked.

“Pete Campbell. He used to be in charge of the compound until Great Uncle Samuel came back. Now he’s just in charge of running the money-making scams. I’m in training. ”

Sam and Dean looked at each other. “So Samuel knows about this?”

The kid shrugged. “He knows there are monster fights.”

Dean put an arm on the kid’s shoulder. “You got someone waiting for you at home?”

“My mom.”

“Okay,” Dean nodded. “You should go home, then. The people your dad was forcing to be gladiators? He kidnapped them and held them captive. He’s going to prison.”

The kid’s mouth quirked and he raised his eyebrows. Dean figured he didn’t believe him, which just meant he was smart, but he appeared to accept Sam’s assurances that his dad wasn’t going to come to any harm, and he left, looking over his shoulder at them periodically until he was out of sight.

\--

The guards were spread between two cells, the trainers were in a third cell and the Lanista, the doctor and two men who Dean didn’t recognize were in a fourth cell.

They were all naked.

When Sam and Dean walked into the cell area one of the men Dean didn’t know jumped up, gripped the cell bars and said, “This is outrageous!”

“Huh,” Dean said. “I guess you’re Pete Campbell.”

The man didn’t respond.

“So I’m guessing Cas explained the set up? You’ve all got Agony or Death cuffs on and we’ll be taking the controllers with us, so good luck getting out of the cavern without crossing a red line and going up in smoke. We’ll be warding the entire cavern when we leave so any rescue party’s gonna find it hard to get in. We’ve already warded your cell and the trainers’ cell to make it tough to get you out of ‘em. We didn’t ward the guards’ cells, because we figure they’re just grunts, so when the rescue party comes, they’ll probably be able to let them loose down here, give ‘em a bit more freedom.  But you? You’re gonna be stuck in that cell for quite a while.”

“We have powerful witches,” Pete Campbell began.

Sam scoffed. “Yeah? Well we’ll see your witches and raise you an angel.”

“I’m surprised you’re not looking for more direct retribution,” said Master Whip, coming to the window of his cell.

“Who says we ain’t?” Walt cracked his knuckles. “I may have got voted down on killing you, but you’re all on my shit list.”

Tamara shook her head. “Once upon a time I would’ve wanted to slaughter every last one of you too. But I let the hate go a long time ago. You have to, in this line of work,” she looked pointedly at Walt, “or you lose your mind.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, “And honestly, you guys aren’t worth the effort. I just wanna get outta here.”

“On that note,” Tamara said. “I say we haul ass.”

Dean was more than ready to do that. There was a six pack with his name on it in Bobby’s fridge and Sam had already promised him a Clint Eastwood marathon.

The hunters dispersed and Cas found where the Campbell’s had hidden the Impala.

Dean opened the driver’s side door and then took a final look around. In the distance a large white-and-grey wolf was trotting on the roadside. It paused, as if it could feel Dean’s eyes on it, and then turned and howled triumphantly.

Dean grinned and nodded and it wagged its tail and went on its way.

“You know,” Dean said to Sam as he slid in behind the wheel, “we did a good thing today.”

“Yeah,” Sam looked at him and smiled. “We did.”

“Technically,” said Cas, “you set a bunch of monsters free and locked up a large number of humans.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Sam said.

Besides, Dean mused, what was a monster, really?

A creature of stone-cold evil, lurking with intent to kill? Sure.

But sometimes what made evil truly monstrous was its banality; the college boy who shot a bunch of girls dead because he couldn’t get a date; the drunk who beat his wife and kids.

Monsters like zombies didn’t have a choice; they were brainless slaves to instinct and they had to be put down.

But some monsters—and all humans—had a choice.

And no matter whether you had fur, fangs or a corner office on Wall Street, it was the choices you made that kept you human or made you a monster.

“What do you think, Dean?” Sam asked.

Dean stared out the window at the long, dark road before him. “I think all we mortals are but shadows and dust.”

“Did you seriously just quote _Gladiator_?”

Dean shrugged. “Russell Crowe might be a douchebag, but Oliver Reed and Richard Harris were good in that movie.”

And maybe, when they’ve drunk all of Bobby’s beer and put a serious dent in his good whiskey, Dean will even let Sammy put the DVD on.

Dean slid a sideways look at the passenger seat, where his brother sat in his rightful place.

“We should stop for snacks,” he said. “Popcorn, nuts, licorice.”

Sam groaned. “Not this again. Licorice tastes like dirt, man.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Sam was such a girl. Everybody knew that licorice was like little chewy pieces of heaven. Maybe tonight would be the night Sammy finally conceded he was wrong; that it was a classic movie food, right up there with popcorn.

Dean grinned and began to marshal his arguments.


End file.
